Manhattan Merry-Go-Round

Delivering that ectoplasmic commodity, Good Will, to the city of New York is a rite as carefully prescribed by convention--and fully as exhausting--as the Pawnee Sun Dance. When France's President Vincent Auriol arrived at Penn Station last week, the Big City picked him up with a whoosh; he was dusted off by blasts from the police band, photographed, hustled into an automobile, delivered to the Waldorf-Astoria behind exactly 32 motorcycle cops, bowed into a suite, led out of it again, and then formally welcomed to the city at a three-hour banquet for 1,500.

This was just the warmup; the next day, a 65-motorcycle escort led his open car down the East River drive to Bowling Green, and then slowly up Broadway through showers of ticker tape to City Hall. Mayor Vincent Impellitteri, having given Auriol the city's Medal of Honor the night before, presented him with something called the Distinguished Service Scroll. Auriol gave the mayor the Order of Commander of the French Legion of Honor, and, despite a presidential cold, kissed him on both cheeks. "Do it again," shrieked the photographers. He did.

Then he reviewed a parade, spoke at a big luncheon, whirled up to Columbia University, accepted an LL.D. degree, made a speech, whirled back, and went to another banquet. Bright & early the next day, he was driven up the Hudson. He laid a wreath on Franklin Roosevelt's grave, lunched with Eleanor Roosevelt, went on to West Point, reviewed a parade, listened to two 21-gun salutes (one coming, one going) by 105-mm. howitzers and hurried back to the city.

Inexhaustible President Auriol, 66, was still working like a beaver. He laid two palm fronds below two tablets at the French Line pier, hustled into the new U.N. building, was cheered, hustled back to the Waldorf, and gave a reception for 2,000 people of New York's French colony. That night, hoarse but willing, he spoke at another banquet, and again as throughout his stay, managed to say just the right thing, even after it was translated from the French.

Then, still whole, but looking a little as if he had escaped from an enormous meat grinder, Auriol was sped north to Canada. New York, a city which gulps up princes and Presidents like gumdrops and remembers almost nobody, was rumbling away as if nothing had happened at all.

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