One of my favorite things to do is simply to walk along Park Avenue or Fifth Avenue in my hometown, New York, on a beautiful spring or fall afternoon. I love looking up at the classic buildings and churches and window gazing at the elite shops. Watching all the people go by is deeply moving; the whole world is represented, proving once again that we are a nation of nations.
Seeing all the varieties of people reminds me of the story of the Japanese billionaire who was asked by a Japanese TV interviewer which was his favorite city as he traveled around the world tending to his conglomerates. “New York,” he said immediately.
“Why New York?” the interviewer asked him. “Why not Rome, Paris, London?”
“Because,” he said, “New York is the only city in the world, where, when I walk down the street, people come up to me and ask for directions.”
True, the whole world is there, and in so many other American cities.
On my walk, I always stop at the corner of a numbered cross street, where a Sabrett hot dog cart manned by an immigrant will always be stationed. I love those hot dogs, affectionately known to New Yorkers as “dirty water dogs” because they sit in a pot of near-boiling water.
I always must have one of them, adorned with mustard and that unique red onion relish I’ve only found in New York. It takes me back to my youth, when they only cost ten cents.
I even found time for it when I was Secretary of State. I would come out of my suite at the Waldorf-Astoria and stroll north up Park Avenue or perhaps over on Fifth Avenue. In those days I was surrounded by bodyguards, and there were usually a couple of New York City police cruisers rolling alongside to keep me from being whacked as I walked.
With my entourage I would walk up to the nearest hot dog peddler and order my hot dog. One poor guy, put off by the attention and all the police and guards, immediately stopped preparing my hot dog, thrust his hands up, and shouted, “I’ve got a green card, I’ve got a green card!” I assured him all was well and this was all about me, not him.
I still have to have a hot dog on my walk, but all the bodyguards and police cars are gone, as is the Waldorf suite. Shortly after leaving State, I went up to a hot dog stand on Fifth Avenue and ordered my standard fare. As the attendant was finishing up my hot dog, a look of recognition came across his face, but he struggled to pull up my name. “I know you,” he said. “I see you on television.” Then, as he handed me the hot dog, it hit him. “Ah, yes, of course, you’re General Powell.” I handed him the money, but he refused to take it. “No, General, no, you don’t owe me anything. I’ve been paid. America has paid me. I will never forget where I came from, but now I am here, I am an American. I’ve been given a new life, and so have my children. Thank you, please enjoy the hot dog.”
I thanked him and continued up the avenue, feeling a warm glow as the recognition came over me once again. What a country . . . still the same country that gave my immigrant parents that open door and welcome ninety years ago. We must never forget that has been our past; it is certainly our present and future.
There’s a cute addition to this story. In 2009, I endorsed Mayor Mike Bloomberg for his third term as mayor of New York. His staff was looking for a photo op that would publicize the endorsement. They thought that a photo of the two of us at a restaurant would be a good idea. I suggested that a street corner purchase of hot dogs would be more New Yorkish and show the mayor in a more humble, “with the people” environment. They loved the idea, and the photo shoot was set up.
It was a cold morning, but I didn’t have a coat on as I approached Mike on the corner. He was wearing an overcoat. Cameras started clicking and reporters and campaign staff were hovering. We walked up to the counter and I ordered two hot dogs. Mike interrupted and said to the guy, “I’ll have my bun toasted.” Ho, boy, this was not exactly a man-of-the-people request.
Nevertheless, it worked, and the photo was on page one, above the fold, of the New York Times the next morning.
I have even brought my love of hot dogs to the highest levels of diplomacy.
In April 2002, when he was still the vice president of the People’s Republic of China, Hu Jintao visited Washington. While there, he was careful to keep his remarks very close to his government’s positions. So, as we say in Washington, we pretty much exchanged standard official talking points.
One evening, I hosted the vice president at a State Department dinner where I wanted to do more than exchange position statements. Hu had just come from a visit to New York. I asked him about the visit. There were UN and other formal meetings, he told me, but not much else.
I told him he had visited New York, but hadn’t seen it. The next time he visited I wanted to be his host. We would minimize the official events, and we and our wives would go to Broadway shows, walk along Forty-Second Street, and visit a variety of neighborhoods, to include Chinatown.
Above all, I told him, I wanted to buy him a hot dog from an immigrant peddler on a street corner. It took a while for the translator to figure it all out, but once he did, Hu broke into a smile. He thanked me and he told me he looked forward to it.
In November 2002, Hu became the president of the People’s Republic of China. I have seen him several times over the intervening years, including a formal dinner in Washington after my retirement. He always spots me and has his aides escort me over to him. We shake hands and hug briefly. His first words, always in American English with a big smile, are “When do we get hot dogs?”
Hot dog diplomacy may not be earth-moving, but it allows two people to develop a human relationship that will help sustain an official relationship in good times and bad.
And remember, our country’s opening to China began with a Ping-Pong match. I’m better at hot dogs.