Last night I met my favorite living author. Ian McEwan. His new book came out yesterday, and he read from it and gave a talk at the 92nd Street Y--a few blocks away from my apartment. (As much as I complain about my apartment, you will never hear me complain about my neighborhood; I love it.)
I controlled myself nicely during the reading and the talk. I tried to restrain my squeals to the internal realm when an audience member asked the same question I was itching to ask, and I tried to conceal the few unnecessary grins after Mr. McEwan spoke words that sounded particularly enchanting and British.
Then I waited in line to have my new book signed. I was, naturally, anxious about meeting one of my literary idols and excited to be able to attend an event I was so passionate about. But I was also mesmerized by the realization that the night was somewhat of a turning point in my New York City experience.