I only come to New York once a year or so to visit my son David who’s an opera singer. Money he makes with computers — he’s really good at that.

One fine morning there, about five years ago when I was still walking well, I went into Manhattan, alone. The Twin Towers were still there, which my wife and I had ascended with fear and trembling the day before. No, I wasn’t doing that again. t iesde mie tou en zo’n schieterd bin ik toch ook weer nait.

I was ambling along Broadway, under the gaudy neon signs marking theaters that lined the street. I’d forgotten it again. It was only a drizzle at first, but then it came down cats and dogs. Umbrellas popped up everywhere and the walking wasn’t so easy anymore. Those darn umbrellas practically poked my eyes out, because New Yorkers don’t look out for each other.

I took shelter in the entrance of a big theater where “Dolly” was playing. Suddenly, another couple hurried in. They too had no umbrella — probably foreigners like me, because New Yorkers are ever ready for bad days and always carry an umbrella.

I shuffled a little bit closer to them to get a better look, trying not to step on anyone’s toes (because you should never do that with New Yorkers). The guy was wearing denim jeans and she had a skirt of the same material. It looked a bit strange to me, considering their age, but then in America, nobody really cares.

He had a big red head — could very well have been a Groninger farmer. She was built more finely, but not so fine that she could have been nobility. When he pulled out a fat cigar, I quickly moved his way and pulled out my lighter. That’s the best way to get introduced.

I said (in Gronings), “I haven’t seen a cigar like that in years.” He replied: “Tank joe verrie much sir, dat is slim nice of joe.” She poked him gently in the side and whispered: “Don’t you hear that, Wubbo, he’s talking Gronings to you.”

“Crazy,” he said after a stunned silence. “Here we are standing in New York, getting away from the darn rain, and just like that you get a light from a Groninger. How great is that? Don’t you think, Geertje?”

Geertje took a good look at me. Oh yes, she knows there’s clean sand and then there’s dirty sand. But she saw how handsome I was, smiled at me kindly, and said: “How long has Mister been in America?” I said, “Since 1953 — already more than 40 years. You’re probably taking a little trip through America. How do you like it?”

Wubbo turned to me suddenly, and said with a some force: “You’ve got to be kidding me. No one speaks Gronings that well after being gone for forty years.” I said, “Sorry man, I can’t help it either. Once a Groninger, always a Groninger! I’ll bet you come somewhere from the Hogeland?”

“Right on man — our farm was in Warfum, but now we’re in Ten Boer. We had a nice house built there in a beautiful, new neighborhood. Oh man, I’m so happy that I can speak Gronings again. Geertje comes from Holland, so I talk Hooghaarlemmerdijks with her. Isn’t that so Geertje?”

And off he went. It just kept raining and he just kept talking, on and on. Never tell me again that Groningers are quiet, reserved people. He certainly wasn’t stingy with words. First I got a big cigar from him and then he dragged me by the arm to an expensive restaurant. Man, what good food I had there. He chuckled a bit to his wife. “You can see, Geertje, that they don’t get much to eat over there in Canada.”

“Now Wubbo,” she said gently, “good food deserves to be eaten.” Still, he had to have the last word, “I was just saying that as a manner of speaking.”

I took the subway back, because I was stuffed, and then walking isn’t so easy. I had hardly sat down on the bench before I was sleeping. I woke up at 125th Street and I should have gotten off at 53rd Street. I was glad that my wife had put a few extra dollars in my pocket so that I could ride back again.