I have a picture, taken on March 14, 2020, of the exterior of the Hungarian Pastry Shop. A splash of sun is hitting the front patio tables where two couples are seated in light coats, but the honey locust is still bare. There’s not a mask in sight, and it might be any strangely warm early spring day this millennium, except that in the foreground, a pair of young women in Columbia-blue caps and gowns are standing hesitantly at a discreet distance from the door. Having been informed that their campus was shutting down and anticipating the consequences, they’d thrown on their graduation regalia and walked over to the place that really mattered for what was going to be their only ceremony. As such, they were observing it in true commencement tradition: being unsure whether or not you want to risk crossing the threshold. Everything about the picture says, Here’s a world that’s still just about intact.
I took it as an anticipatory souvenir. As the grandson of a Greek emigrant restaurant owner, culturally primed to be alert for signs of business (and civilizational) failure…