NEW YORK

Sex is of such importance to Americans that to be by yourself even for an hour is regarded as a crippling misfortune

Quentin Crisp

In reality, except for Sydney, which is an ostentatiously holiday city, New York is the most leisurely conglomeration of buildings and people in the world.

Everybody in New York goes out—even if only to sit on a diningroom chair on his front doorstep.

You will notice at once that everybody is your friend. When occasionally I have remarked upon this fact to the natives, almost all of them have expressed surprise or even scorn. From this reaction you may logically conclude that New Yorkers, quite unlike the inhabitants of Paris or London, are nicer to outsiders than they are to one another. If, therefore, you do not by nature have a foreign accent, adopt one. Everybody since Pola Negri has known that. When it was first suggested by a certain Mr. Cantor that I should visit the United States, I asked him if I ought to learn the language. His answer was an emphatic “No,” to which he added, “The more English you sound, the more likely you are to be believed.” Mastering a British accent is somewhat of a chore, but do not be dismayed. Any accent will do except Spanish, which is now considered a subsidiary form of American. If, at a later date, you decide to revert to your normal way of behaving and talking, all will be forgiven. Americans have the greatest respect for a gimmick. When I stayed in a hotel on Forty-fourth Street, I found myself alone in the elevator with a man wearing the hotel uniform. “I am the bell captain,” he announced. “The other guests keep asking me if you are a celebrity.” I explained that I was not, but that I always tried to go on as though I were. With the utmost gravity, the captain replied, “Thank you, sir. I will tell them.”

I mention all this only to show that half the pleasure of going out in New York has nothing to do with where you are going.

Travel alone.

This will make New Yorkers, all of whom are dying to converse with you, feel more free to do so. Sex is of such importance to Americans that to be by yourself even for an hour is regarded as a crippling misfortune. You will, therefore, immediately become an object of public concern. You will be offered assistance from all sides.

Even in the heart of the city the streets are in such a strange condition that merely walking along them tends to be like rock climbing. When you tire of this vigorous exercise, do not enter the subway. The noise below ground is so deafening that even the most inquisitive fellow traveler cannot compete.

The most agreeable form of locomotion is a bus. The moment you take a seat, the entire clientele will offer you contradictory advice about the best way to reach your destination. Then, because of your exotic manner of speaking, you will be asked, “Where are you from?” Mention any place on earth except Los Angeles. New Yorkers maintain a perpetual armed truce with California. The social values of these two regions are totally opposed. On the West Coast, entertainment is a serious business, and all other activities, including sex, are hobbies. On the East Coast, all pursuits are treated as being of such significance that they may at any moment bring on a neurosis—except the theater, into which everybody thrusts himself without talent or warning. New Yorkers will see anything. Everyone in Manhattan is a star or a star manque, and every flat surface on the island is a stage. If your habit of walking about the city and smiling at strangers is misunderstood by the authorities and you are arrested, do not seek to exculpate yourself by explaining that you weren’t doing anything. Instead say, “How’s the show going, officer?” because if he isn’t in a show, his wife is, and if she isn’t, their daughter is.

Should you ultimately decide that you should go somewhere, start with any of the larger discotheques. It is easy to obtain admission to these places because their publicists distribute invitations as though they were confetti. It is of no importance which one you choose because they are all exactly and quite deliberately alike. They look like doomed liners. The engines chug, the lights flash, the passengers scream, but no help comes. In these teenage Titanics it is impossible to hold a conversation because of the noise. Confine yourself to a few startling telegrams. When, in one such place, I was introduced to someone, she said, ‘‘I hear you’re some kind of writer. I was an infant prodigy; my life was absolute hell.”

The ultimate object of all this gadding about is to get on the peanut circuit. If you can subsist on peanuts and champagne alone, you need never buy food again. All your money can be spent on kinky clothes—but do not accept any invitation which stipulates that formal dress must be worn. At such a function you may be asked to contribute to some worthy cause other than yourself.

Money flows through the streets of Manhattan with a gurgling sound. Night after night, parties are given at which droves of people wander from room to room of vast public buildings asking one another who their host is. No one ever knows, but do not fret. Eat and drink your fill; you have become a walking, talking, guzzling, slurping tax loss. For all this beneficence, the only return you will ever be asked to make is to allow yourself to be photographed. Every fifth person in New York is a photographer. At a party I once asked one of them how she wished me to look. In a kind of desperate wail, she said, "Try to look as if you were having a good time." It doesn’t seem much to ask.

How, in this vortex of sociability, will you know when you have finally arrived?

Your moment of endorsement will come not when you overhear yourself described as beautiful or likable or witty, but when some magnificent mogul whispers in your ear, "You’re deductible."