THE FIRST time I went to New York I wound up feeling not very good. Last May I walked it all, working on a photographic essay about people in the streets. A stocky man in a green T-shirt took a fancy to my camera while I was wearing it. He plucked it from my neck and told me with a smile he wasn't going to give it back. I watched him stride away. OK, I had insurance and it wasn't unexpected. My distracted wandering behind the lens had led me from Columbia to the outskirts of Harlem-a bad sense of direction took me from there to the nearest subway, at 125th and Lenox. I watched my camera dangle over the shoulder of the green T-shirt like a panfish headed for the table, or more precisely, the pawnshop. We'd been through University Hall together.

The first time I asked directions, an old lady at the newsstand in front of Grand Central Station shrieked: "You dumb freak! Freak! Can't you read? Read the goddamn sign!" Right then and there I knew I'd stepped into the big league city without a bat.

Last weekend, on my second trip to New York City, I left the camera behind. I was going to concentrate on the simple pleasures of the tourist. This time I wasn't going to be conned into seeing a movie by a Long Island sharpie. I was going to make it to my first Broadway show.

By Saturday night I'd given up. Wherever I called, performances were sold out and scalper's rates left my date and me with enough for a preztel but not for subway tokens back to NYU. The Philharmonic with Leonard Bernstein was packed, the Knicks were in town and Madison Square Garden didn't answer. Theolonius Monk was weathering something in Canada. I'd had too many jackhammers that day for the Fillmore East to beckon, and even the movies-well, Zabriskie Point wouldn't open until Monday.

So my date and I were searching on 46th St. for some restaurant billing a black power operetta scheduled for 8:30 or so, Elvin Jones to follow. I had floated through the Modern, the Guggenheim, and the Met that day, tasting the colors in quick glances. I tipped my cowboy hat at Mrs. Hester van Primm as she walked out of the Hotel Plaza with 20 poodles on a leash, Yes, I was in a pleasant trance the whole day, and, as is my wont in that mood. I traveled down the streets turning circles, looking up at the clouds, balconies, birds, and flags. The city seemed just right. I'm quite susceptible to awe, being a country boy of sorts, originally.

We passed under a marquee and I stopped. "A new play by Art Buchwald...

"... Sheep on the Runway."

"I bet you're all sold out. Any standing room only?"

The usher was thin, patient, wise. A nice big leaguer.

"Naw, We got some seats left." He invited me to the box office.

"Six-fifty for the balcony..."

I turned to leave.

"... and four dollars for the second balcony."

Tickets firmly clenched, I skipped back to my date to give her the good news. I had looked around the lobby and seen some cigarette holders and jewelry. There were some galoshes too. That worried me. I didn't have a very clear idea of where I was. There were some pretty cheesy moviehouses nearby, and not a single theater with a play.

The night before I'd been to off-off Broadway, and now I thought I might be in some nether category for the awestruck. I was too frightened to ask the wise, patient usher (who had used all his considerable influence to get me in) whether, in fact, this theater was On Broadway.