The old New Yorkers’ saying that “you can find one of just about anything in New York City, and in most cases, two“, came to life for me one night a few years ago when I was taking the 4 train home from a temporary work assignment in the Bronx. I heard a strangely familiar-but-not-quite comprehensible language being spoken (it sounded like Japanese but I didn’t quite recognize any words I knew), and sniffed a strong smell of spoilage that made me gag and retch and get back onto the platform. I no longer had to wonder what rancid yak butter smelled like, for before my eyes were two middle-aged Mongolian men in full national costume, carrying traditional instruments, and having a conversation while other commuters edged slowly out of their way.