A writer who said he was with NEW YORK magazine sidled up to the famous artist I was escorting, and apologized for the unrepresentative New Yorkers across the barricades, calling them not without familiar affection “the yahoos.” He was interested in the artistic performance in the theater, and my wife treated him to a succinct comment about the male lead needing to work a little more on his voice. (Her standards are pretty high.) I was glad I didn’t have to reveal my sour comments on the ideology of the musical.

We walked the thirteen or so hot and sweaty blocks to our hotel, rested a while in the sheer enjoyment of the air conditioning, showered, and went out to the dinner mentioned above.