When we met, Luis Beltran was standing in a crowd, looking a little shell-shocked, holding an ice cream.

“People in the city can be so rude,” he said.

It was still summer, and we were in the middle of one of the largest parks in New York City: Flushing Meadows Park in Queens. As the heat winds down, NPR has been interviewing parkgoers about life as recently arrived immigrants.

This park is a great place to hear all kinds of stories. Queens is traditionally a hub for immigrants from all parts of the world, and thousands of people come here every weekend. On that summer day, there was live music, and food vendors selling goodies at the top of their lungs. Which is exactly what Beltran was trying to do for the first time: sell some ice cream.

But when he got there, he froze. (No pun intended.)

The thing is, Beltran is very shy.

“Especially around women,” he said, laughing and looking down. Beltran is 23 years old. He’s short and stocky, a handsome guy.

Originally from Ecuador, he left home about a year ago. He says he paid a coyote, a guide to migrants, to bring him up through Central America and Mexico, all the way to the U.S. border. It cost about $20,000.

This is not an uncommon fee for that journey: Migrants often sell everything they own and get deep in debt to pay for the trek north. “Coming to the U.S. is expensive,” said Beltran.

Beltran is among the more than 200,000 migrants who have arrived in New York City since 2022, according to local government. Like many of them, although he is in the immigration system, he doesn’t have work authorization. This is a problem because he owes money to that coyote, who knows where his family lives.

La deuda, the debt, is a frequent topic of conversation among recently arrived immigrant communities.

“I think about how to pay la deuda,” Beltran said.

He got a job in construction. Then one day, he picked up a book called Atomic Habits, by James Clear. “It teaches you how to take more risks, be more open, be more of a businessman. Challenge yourself.”

Beltran finished the book and decided to come to the park and sell ice cream. Specifically, helados de salcedo, an Ecuadorian-style popsicle.

But when he got here this morning, he got nervous.

When we met, he was just standing there quietly, a now-dripping ice cream cone in hand, as if holding a white surrender flag.

He said he was thinking about his aunt. When he was a kid, he used to sell flowers with her on the street. He was already very shy back then, and one day she told him: “Luis, you can’t afford to be shy.”

So he says this morning when he got to the park, he came up with a mantra: “Send money to cancel the debt. Cancel the debt. Cancel the debt. Keep going. Keep fighting.”

Beltran’s eyes light up a little as he says it aloud. He takes a deep breath and yells:

“Helados de lado de salcedo, helados de sabores, helados, helados, helados… no se quede con las ganas. (Salcedo ice cream! All kinds of flavors! Ice cream! Don’t hesitate to get yours!)”

As he shouts it, he smiles for the first time since we met.