I rarely drink much, but apparently when you put me at a bar with free drinks and lots of charming writers, I end up having two whiskey sours and much delightful conversation, then wandering the streets of New York, slowly wending my way back to my sister’s via public transit, only slightly confused by C trains only running express and D trains suddenly making C train local stops, entirely charmed by the host of costumed New Yorkers also riding those trains — did you know that New York is full of superheroes and super villains? It’s true! — and mostly engrossed in an Anna Quindlen book that is very well-written, but also feels like a letter from another time, when the lives of women were significantly different from the lives of my own generation. Nineteen years makes a big difference, it seems. The weather is unusually balmy, writers and their intense conversations are lovely, and I think if I lived in New York, I might be a little intoxicated much of the time, even without the aid of alcohol.

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