On a beautiful Saturday on lower Fifth, crowds pool at curb corners and then drain away at intervals, flowing and swirling and dissipating. The tide seems endless. Women bob and weave among clothesracks, vendor stands and each other; miserable-looking HABs trail some of them like kite-tails, or gather in mutinous silence on the twee, artfully threadbare couches outside fitting rooms, staring desperately into their smartphones.
People are full of eggs and pancakes and vibrating with excess coffee consumed for pleasure and not out of necessity. Some are visibly drunk with relief that the workweek is over, and feel pleasantly off-kilter all day, like jetlag, due to having slept in. Not the people who are working, of course, who are instead shellshocked by the unwonted volume (both numerical and auditory) of customers. You never get used to being that outnumbered; the ancient cellular instinct to flee to avoid being stampeded has to be continually suppressed all day.