1.<br > It was south of Itouston in New York City， a short mean<br >street in a mean neighborhood that once had been bright and<br >clean and homogeneous and even romantic for Mr. Nicola<br >Parma， old now， the proprietor of a grocery store. Once upon<br >a time， long ago， it had all been splendidly Italian， an enclave<br >of the pae~6ni; it had even smelled of the old country. All the<br >way west to the river， all of it had been Italian. To the north<br >and to the east there had been the Jews and a sprinkling of<br >Poles and Ukrainians and Russians and downtown Germans.<br >To the south ]lad been Chinatown， a tiny area， tightly con-<br >centrated. So it had been long ago， perhaps half a century<br >ago. Now it was different.<br > Through the generations the old Jews had died and the<br >young Jews had drifted away， and the Poles， Ukrainians，<br > Russians， and Germans had gradually disappeared， and all of<br > that neighborhood to the north and to the east had radically<br > changed. It became known as East Village and for a time， in<br > the sixties， had been occupied， like a conquered land， by a<br > transient army of hippies， junkies， fortune-tellers， motor-<br > bikers， meditators， religion freaks， and twelve-year-old pros-<br > titutes. But all of that too had radically changed， and now<br > there were many permanent residents， establishing perma-<br > nent roots， mostly Hispanic people and black people， but<br >
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