I met Shirley in the park. It was one of those warm early spring days, the ones that trick you into believing warmer weather is just around the corner. As I sat one a bench on the north side of Madison Square Park, soaking up the first warm sun of the year, in my periphery I saw an elderly woman walking down the path. She walked with a cane and wore black slacks, a thin cream turtle neck and wool coat – an outfit all too warm for a day like today.

The elderly lady slowed as she approached my bench. “Oh no,” I thought, “She’s going to sit next to me”. Politely, I moved my bags, the ones I had intentionally scattered across the bench to prevent this very situation while still secretly hoping she would continue shuffling along to the completely empty bench slightly further down.

She did not.

Slowly, she sat down. Opening her coat further, but not removing it.

Shirley casually, but not tentatively, began conversation. At first about my half-eaten salad (she doesn’t eat salad, she doesn’t believe there is any substance to it and therefore, sees no point), and then, about the sunshine. I entertained it, smiling and making small talk back. Her New York accent wasn’t think or brash, but a subtle presence that would leave no doubt in anyone's mind that Shirley is a New Yorker.

Once we’d thoroughly reviewed the weather and my food she continued, “I grew up on East 7th Street, in the Village. We were living between Avenues A and B, which was where all the immigrants lived at that time.” And with that, the stories begun streaming from her small body and thin lips. Shirley was a gold mine of New York stories.

Shirley was born on east 19th street, she moved to the Village when she was 7 years old. Shirley’s mother was Ukrainian, her father Romanian and she was the first generation of Americans in her family. Growing up, at school, the classes were full of Europeans speaking a rainbow of languages – the Italians, the Irish, the Albanians and the Hungarians. She reminisced how Little Italy was still full of Italian families when she was young and was certainly not a place tourists would want to spend their time.

“The neighborhood was more ethnic back then” she said, “clusters of different types of people living in pockets right next to each other.” She paused and in a sad tone continued, “I don’t feel it will ever be that way again. You don’t realize it while you’re in it, but that was such a special time for this city”

Shirley told me about the Polish bar that was near her home on 7th Street. She would sneak out of the house after dinner to stand across the street to listen and watch what was happening inside. This is because, in the evenings, this Polish bar would play polka music and as the music began, the crew of men inside would begin stomping so loudly on the wooden floors she could hear it all the way into the streets – imagining they were making the whole world shake with their feet. And, in the summer, with the door to the bar left open, she would be able to see them dancing and twirling along to the music. It was in this moment that Shirley thought how wonderful it must be to be a grown-up, and to be a man.

As we talk about the City Shirley tells me she lived in Chicago once, for only a few years. She says this almost as if it were a confession, a secret she was confiding me with. She is sure to inform me that she lived in Chicago’s during the city's coldest winter on record in 100 years. Apparently Shirley doesn’t like the cold and so, since moving away, has never been back - not even once.

Shirley doesn’t like the New York weather either. Hates it even. And yet she remains. I never got the chance to ask her why she stayed, and stays, if she dislikes it so much. But, she’s here. And that seems to be the general sentiment of most New Yorkers. I suppose none of us are here because of the weather.

Shirley now leaves in Chelsea – in the west 20s somewhere. She doesn’t like to shop – not often – and thinks girls these days shop too much. "How do you know whats fashionable if everything is considered 'trendy'?" she asks as I giggle. “And synthetics,” she continues in a disgusted tone, “why do we need synthetics?”

Shirley tells me that she remembers buying good clothes and buying few, but what you bought was the best you could afford and you wore it over and over. And that every girl only had two or three nice dresses they would occasionally wear out to dinners or dancing.

At this point our conversation as gone on beyond my allocated lunch hour. I start to say my goodbyes and Shirley tells me she goes on a walk through Madison Square Park everyday and hopes to see me again. And she assures me that next time I see her, she’ll be in her lipstick. She wears lipstick everyday, just not today because she has a dentist appointment in the afternoon and wearing lipstick to the dentist would be a silly thing to do.

Every time I’m in Madison Square Park I look for Shirley. I haven’t seen her again, not yet.

“My favorite thing about New York is the people, because I think they’re misunderstood. I don’t think people realize how kind New York people are.”

— BIllMurray