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I am a lifelong insomniac, so it was inevitable that I would make New York my home. For some of us, the possibility junkies, the city is far more welcoming after dark, vivid and electric, inexhaustible in its store of potential pleasures. The night is egalitarian in a way that the day is not. By day, New York is segregated into professional ghettos, but at night the boundaries are loosened.
The city becomes more cosmopolitan as the tribes mix; the lawyers doff their ties, and the nocturnal dandies don their makeup.
After a day of drudgery, the office intern lies down for a nap and emerges, hours later, having metamorphosed into Cinderella. Not every night is eventful, of course, even the ones you were most hopeful about. The lure of the forbidden is always more compelling than an engraved invitation.
But the greatest era of nighttime in New York is always the one that coincides with your own youth. When I arrived in the city in November — one of its most mythologized eras, I know, but it was mine — the death of the disco age had just been sealed when Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager were busted for tax evasion.