This gig's for you.

One morning last spring, as I left my building for work, I discovered a young woman dancing--well, actually, gyrating is more like it--on my front stoop. She wore very short cut-off blue jeans and a flowered-print halter top, and I first saw her through the glass front door of my building, from behind. It was only after I opened the door and passed by, pausing long enough to say "Excuse me," that I noticed the film crew in the street.

Like most New Yorkers, I'm normally oblivious to the film industry; it's not unusual, especially in my neighborhood, to stumble upon a group of people armed with cameras and boom mikes: "N.Y.P.D. Blue" is set in my precinct; parts of Die Hard III were filmed nearby; and finding an N.Y.U. film student is easier than finding a cop. Still, this woman was twisting on my doorstep, which doesn't happen everyday.

I should explain that I live in the East Village, near Tompkins Square Park, in a part of Manhattan that has undergone something of a hipster renaissance in the past few years as well-heeled arty types and dressed-down college kids have made it their home. Nose rings and tattoos abound, and Mohawked, leather-clad teen-agers, their bodies pierced in half-a-dozen ways, roam the streets reciting their group manifesto: "Spare change for a cold beer, man?"

At times, this "scene" can be a bit much, and a few months ago, as the weather warmed up and as more people began spending more time on the street and in the park, I started to think about moving--not just from the neighborhood, but from New York. Still, that morning, I was more intrigued than annoyed by the woman on my stoop, and I crossed the street to watch. Looking back at my building, I saw that a young, broad-shouldered black man sat on the steps and played the bongos, while the dancer, a slim Hispanic C. woman, twisted and flailed behind him. I asked a lighting guy with a ponytail what the shoot was for, and he told me it was a Budweiser commercial, which made sense, considering the high-spirited aura of multicultural fun.

Earlier, when I'd exited my building and first seen this woman--her twisting hips, her shapely legs--I'd had the uncomfortable, though accidental, sensation of being a voyeur. But, from the other side of Tenth Street I saw her sashays and shimmies with fresh eyes: I wasn't a pervert; hers were made-for-TV moves, which meant that, in the larger view, she was shaking her hips for all the world, and that, of course, included me. Her flailing and her wide, "summer's-here-and-the-time-is-right-for-dancing-in-the-streets" smile, both were for me. Certainly it was okay if I gaped at the real thing; I might never even see the commercial.

After a few minutes, the director, a portly white guy in a windbreaker and a baseball cap, stopped the action and then stepped in front of the dancer and shook his booty in demonstration. He clapped his hands and swung his hips. I heard him tell her, "You're doin' great. Just stay with the beat."

The woman watched him and nodded to herself, then she walked a few feet down the block and practiced her moves a cappella. The black man set the bongos on the steps, stood, and stretched, and I decided it was time to go to work.

Now, at the end of summer, the street is quieting down somewhat, and I find myself looking back to that morning--the woman dancing; the film crew semi-circled around my front steps--and remembering that sense of vicarious excitement, that energy rising off the pavement that brought me to New York in the first place. Last spring, for those few minutes, I felt plugged into the life around me, connected with the world, happy to be right where I was.