Almost a week later, the birthday celebrations continue—and that’s the way we like it. Saturday p.m. found me and Kat at Giorgione, with its luscious dessert tray in the center of the room, and where a bad meal has never been had. The tastiness it kept a-comin’, first the bellinis, and the radishes in olive oil and minced anchovies, then the roasted radicchio, the bacalao, the risotto and grilled quail, the pear stewed in wine and cinnamon. Oh my word, sometimes you just eat like kings. And even though I’d said I didn’t want any presents, the girl worked her way around it and got me exactly what I didn’t know I wanted, which was Nina Simone’s “Pastel Blues” and “Let it All Out” and a Jacques Pepin cookbook in which one of his recipes calls for Nutella.

On my way to the restroom, this guy who’d be played by Philip Seymour Hoffman in the movie version of my life stopped in front of me and said, slurrily and deliberately at the same time, “I. like. your. metallic. shoes.” “Thanks,” I said, “I like your, um, metallic glasses.” I couldn’t get past him. “Are you from Korea?” “No, are you?” “No,” he said, “I’m from Hungaria.” “Really.” “Mm.” “That doesn’t exist.” “Are you Chinese?” Sigh. “Yes.” He was directly between me and the bathroom door. “Hong Kong.” “Huh?” “Hong Kong.” “Um.” “They have a lot of wealthy entrepreneurs in Hong Kong.” “Hm. Okay, I’m gonna go to the loo now.”

Deeper into the night, we had occasion to walk by the Meatpacking District, jesus, so that’s what goes on in the Meatpacking District on a Saturday night, all these thick-necked boys and dainty-shoed girls spilling out onto the streets. A petite blond in a small skirt and kohled eyes barely gave me a glance before she stepped in front of me and soldiered on in search of good times and big fun.

We escaped on the number fourteen bus, heading east.