The connections that spring up from stamp collecting never cease to amaze. Anamaria Koleta Kil was worried. She called me from New Zealand to say her brother was arriving in New York City from the South Pacific. “Will you meet him and see that he is all right?” she asked.

I had emailed her for information on a stamp story I was doing on one of my collection areas and her homeland, Tokelau, a tiny three-island nation 1,500 miles north of New Zealand, and I was the one person she knew in New York, a city that even sophisticated travelers can find overwhelming.

Now it was my turn to be worried. I was looking forward to a live meet with those Tokelauans I knew from stamp images of women weaving baskets in the shade of palm trees, men in boats catching flying fish, swimming, beach wrestling and dancing. But what would they want to see? Would they want fresh fish and coconut meat or would they be open to steak, hot dogs and pizza? Could I make this into a philatelic event?

A week later Falani Aukuso and Kuresa Nasau, dressed in shorts, Hawaiian style shirts and sneakers and ready for sightseeing, were waiting for me in the lobby of their hotel on East 51st Street. Falani, Ana’s brother, is senior advisor to the Council of Elders and Kuresa is Tokelau’s prime minister, or Ulu.

They were squeezing out some free time in between official visits to the United Nations Special Committee of 24 on De-colonialization. As Tokelau’s delegates to the world conference their mission was to present Tokelau’s appeal for self-determination from New Zealand. Currently New Zealand stamp dealer J.R. Mowbray is the philatelic agent for Tokelau commissioning the art and printers for new issues.

I pulled Falani aside and asked him if he would help make this a philatelic event by signing some covers. He’d ask the Ulu later, he said. “Come with us when we make our presentation to the UN and we’ll see.”

Shopping at Macy’s was at the top of their list. “Let’s get a cab and go,” Falani said. I suggested a preliminary stop at Odd Lot for bargains and a $1.50 air conditioned bus ride. As the bus rolled down Fifth Avenue on a bright sunny morning the Ulu said, “Everything is so big. So many, many nationalities.” Our fellow passengers included Indians in saris, two Jamaican women speaking the lilted accents of Caribbean English, a Senegalese women in a bright green and gold floor length dress, a Frenchman reading the magazine Paris Match and holding an unlit cigarette, ready to light up as soon as he got off.

We hopped off at Odd Lot, a store that buys up small lots of leftover merchandise cheaply from manufacturers and retails it at close-out prices. Everything from CD players to tools. That’s where we lost the prime minister.

“Where’s the Ulu?” asked Falani when he came out loaded with packages. He watched the store’s entrance while I searched two nearby souvenir shops, a shoe store and a men’s shop without success. Falani decided to make one more search in Odd Lot. He found the Ulu in a tucked away corner of the store filling the large suitcase he had selected to hold all the clothes he was picking out for his grandchildren.

Macy’s forgotten, we regrouped at a pizza restaurant. “We don’t have the land to grow vegetables,” the Ulu said, tucking into a heaping salad of lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers. Falani opted for a plate of spaghetti and meat loaf. Then we were off for the view atop the Empire State Building and a ride on the subway to the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Met).

“This is just like the movies,” Falani said, as he stood on the uptown platform of the IRT Lexington Avenue subway on our way to the Met. Our mini-tour sandwiched in the art of ancient Egypt and the South Pacific, Gauguin’s paintings of Tahiti and some American modern art. “Are these originals,” Falani kept asking. “I should have come here and not the United Nations.”

The next morning I scurried around getting press credentials for the “delegates only” part of the UN. Finding the temporary press office in a trailer at end of the U.N. park, waiting for the New Zealand Mission to fax over a credentials request, dashing back several streets to get photographed, then locating the conference room all ate up time. But I made it.

I slid into a chair just in time to hear Tokelau’s prime minister make his opening remarks. Dark colored business suits, crisp white shirts, and silk ties replaced yesterday’s casual garb. My new friends Falani and the Ulu looked the image of the diplomats they are.

The speech was well received and the committee voted unanimously in Tokelau’s favor. Now, it was stamp time. I broke from the room and dashed down to the basement post office to get UN stamps affixed and canceled to a handful of envelopes I’d brought to commemorate this historic day in Tokelau’s history and get them signed by the Tokelau and New Zealand delegates.

“Sorry,” said the postal clerk. “I can’t give you back the envelopes once they’re canceled. We have to mail them to you.” No amount of pleading moved them. How could I get the covers signed if Falani and Kuresa were going home in a day? They would be back in Tokelau by the time the covers were delivered to my home mailbox.

What to do? “No, you can’t speak with the station supervisor,” the clerk said. “He’s on vacation.” Then I remembered I knew Vinny Malloy, who’s the Postmaster Of New York City and their ultimate boss, since UN mail is processed and transported by the US Post Office. Name dropping helped. The clerk made a call and I was quickly given the covers.

The New Zealand government administrator for Tokelau, the Ulu and Falani signed the covers. Then I gave most of them to Falani to have canceled in Tokelau and mailed back to me. I hope I get them. They’re overdue and I’m getting anxious.

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