I get a small table to myself in the corner of a backroom in a basement bar. For some the attraction would be the lively, diverse and interesting clientele, which due to the location is a mix of law students, theater kids, journalists, aging bohemians, and the occasional lost tourist, who didn’t expect such an interesting, warren-like space down the stairs and through the doors, with small rooms, nooks and possibilities.

But not me, or not entirely. Sure, I like being with this crowd, and being mistaken for one of them, for perhaps having a life and a future – or at my age an interesting past – but really I’m here for the music and beer, for a place to sit with a book, notebook and pen, to trip out on the alcohol and words and find my joy quietly in the whirling crowd, absorbing the buzz, feeling the anonymity and excitement of the city, embracing the fact no one cares who I am or what I’m doing.

Sometimes this is what I need to be happy, to simply disappear.