The very personification of post-holiday blues: A windblown, rain-soaked Saturday Greenmarket, on the day the Christmas trees get chopped to smithereens at the Mulchfest (tomorrow, too). I buy a few apples and some bread, get my hopes dashed that any greens have robustly survived the previous week's brutal "polar vortex," and even manage to be weirdly depressed by the sudden 50-degree temperature spike.
And then, just as the brief pounding rain abates, I hear it: an impossibly joyful trumpet, burbling within one of the columned shelters at Grand Army Plaza. My video cuts off before his final flourish, in which he somehow blew his few rapt listeners a little brassy "air kiss." Hours later, the delight has still not worn off.