A long way from Southern France

I'm in New York City tonight for a meeting tomorrow. I'm in a trendy hotel adjacent to Lincoln Center, adorned for the holidays with a 50-foot-tall Christmas Tree illuminated with royal blue lights in the shape of snowflakes. It's freezing, with an icy wind barreling down Broadway and people rushing into taxis and buildings for shelter. I arrived late and went out right away to get a bite to eat, something to bring back to my room for a working dinner. On the corner between my hotel and the EuroPan coffee shop, an elegant store displayed brightly colored Lycra workout clothes, $125 a pop. Opposite the shop, huddled in a heap on the ground like a pile of dirty laundry was a man clutching a tattered paper cup containing some loose change.

"It's so cold," he wimpered, "please someone help me." His cry was muffled as he kept his face down to protect himself from the wind. His feet stuck out beneath a moth-eaten coat, the mismatched shoes were torn. People rushed by.

At the coffee shop, I ordered two large bowls of soup to go, two teas and two rolls with butter. On the way back to the hotel, I stopped and kneeled down by the man.

"Here's some warm soup and tea," I said, handing him the bag. "Can you find a doorway out of the wind to eat?"

After a moment, he lifted his head slightly and looked at the bag.

"Thank you," he said. He had three $1 bills clutched in his hand. "I'm trying to find a room. But nobody sees me.

"Nobody sees me."

And, it seems, nobody did.