Email from America, Six: Calm.

By nine or ten, the tensions seem to have eased, and the city seems lulled by a wave of collective relief, now that the voting is over, and the die is cast. There is a pervading sense of calm. Hopefully not the calm before the storm.

I see and hear equal levels of support for either candidate, and these cut across all demographics. At Rockerfeller Plaza, the crowds and couples saunter in middle aged ease, well dressed and chipper, like the audience of a classical concert. On Broadway, families mingle. Without wishing to sound unduly mawkish or naive, even at Time Square there are both pro and anti Trump supporters talking civilly.  Someone in a huge bear costume - one half blue Democrat, the other Republican red - is offering "Hugs for Unity," which are keenly taken up.  There is a general sense that Harris is winning - though my optimism is cautious: this, after all, is not Florida or Alaska. This is New York.

At Herald Square subway station, an elderly black man sings the songs of Nat King Cole. I donate a dollar, and feel bad it isn't more. Away he croons, this old romantic, as we watch and applaud, and lose ourselves in late night reverie, liberated from the quagmire of politics, at least for tonight.

"They tried to tell us we're too young

Too young to really be in love

They say that love's a word, a word we've only heard

But can't begin to know the meaning of.

And yet, we're not too young to know

This love will last though years may go

And then, someday, they may recall

We were not too young at all.

And yet, we're not too young to know

This love will last though years may go

And then, someday, they may recall

We were not too young at all.

"Nat King Cole ..." the busker burbles, "he was the greatest. He was the greatest!" His backing music fades, and he gets mixed up between tracks on his phone, the elegant performance educed to absurd ruin.  This only adds to its naturalistic charm, as the draughty platform echoes with swiftly rejected snippets of pop songs. And it strikes me as so strange that, while above us a grown man parades in a mask of Donald Trump, here we all are, people from every corner of the globe, hanging around at midnight a hundred feet below the ground, listening to perfectly imperfect 1940's love songs, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Which, of course, it is.

I suppose this, as they say, is New York.

What will be revealed in the morning or the coming days, nobody knows.