On the way down to skate camp we stopped at the 7-11 for gatorade, water and ice for the cooler. An aging red van pulled into the lot, blaring gypsy music into the sunday morning hush. Two men sat in the van speaking over the music in a slavic tongue. The boys rolled their eyes, but for me, it was the kind of brush with something foreign, something outiside the familiar, that makes life in the city bearable.