To finish our whirl wind tour, Roman took us to the Lincoln Center, home of the New York ballet.
Before going inside, I looked down at my mustard-stained shirt. "I can't go in there like this," I said. My hair was a mess, blowing in the soft breeze, not to mention my shirt.
Roman, feeling bad for me, hurried a step or two away from the doors.
"Follow me," he said. I ran after him, not sure where he was leading me.
About two blocks away, he found a man on the street selling t -shirts featuring the phrase "I love New York" with a big heart for the "O."
"Here," Roman handed me a t-shirt along with a pair of sunglasses.
Roman handed the man the money for the shirt, and I slipped it on over my shirt with the mustard stain. Then Roman tied the shirt in a knot on the side and secured the sunglasses. "Cute," he said.
