Tonight, a party in a classic loft apartment full of original art and   interesting people (read – a guy with a hat and a couple whowore matching clothes).  Mac & cheese, meat loaf and plentiful supplies of cake. Jazz trio and two young pianists vying for our ear.

In NYC, up until now we have only been to other Europeans’ apartments with other Europeans as guests.  The reliable ex-pat circulars of leaving parties and housewarmings.  In this instance, our real estate agency wanted to say “Thanks” with a party and get it in before the Thanksgiving rush (well, rush for some – we’re still waiting for an invite for turkey dinner, hint, hint).

I was expecting a bar somewhere with a rolling presentation of apartments to rent, and brochures all laid out.  Then, even when entering the 5th floor Tribeca apartment, I thought, oh hang on, this must be an apartment they are trying to rent out, the  market is quiet and so they’re hosting a party there – cool idea.  But no. The owner (of both the apartment and the real estate agency) had invited us into her own home.  A senior-looking little lady, she was stylish with an open face but with a hint of frailty.  Her son’s artwork hung on her walls and someone called Brian had made all the food.

M returned form the kitchen, astonished at the eccentric salad-spoon manoeuvres of a pushy tall skinny guy behind him with a big mop of hair.  Next minute the same guy is tinkling away at the grand piano, in some kind of a personal contest with a gothic girl. She was way better. It could have been a scene from a Woody Allen movie if it weren’t for the lack of angst and intellectual rambling.

So, anyway, now I feel like a New Yorker.  Or someone who knows New Yorkers, at least.  Ok, then, someone who buys stuff off New Yorkers and spends enough money to be invited to their house.