Partying Like It's 1993

One evening, out of the blue, I received a text from my dear old friend Vincent. He and his charming wife Josephine were staples of my social set during my New York years. 

Vincent wished to know if I recalled a get-together that occurred in my West Village apartment some time in the 1990s. He did not want to say any more than that, because he and Jo were having a debate as to whose recollection was more accurate.

This all made me laugh. I loved that Vincent trusted my memory enough to believe I could summon anything that happened in the 1990s, let alone at a party with cocktails involved. I told him he’d have to provide more context.

The notorious door buzzer

Gradually, over several texts, I gathered that three strangers had rung my buzzer and crashed the party. They were Euro trashy, in an advanced stage of partying, and told us that we “looked like fun.” Apparently, they had spotted us from the street.

With that, one of them -- the leader -- proceeded to remove his shirt and dance. Like some other Europeans, it became apparent that he did not bathe frequently. 

This uninhibited partier, now in the mood for love, asked my friend’s wife if she “wanted some action.” When she demurred, he proceeded to remove his pants while continuing to spin and gyrate. 

The crux of my friends’ bifurcated memories lay therein. According to Josephine, this man retained a shred of modesty, while Vincent recollected that he went full Monty. 

And there you have a summation of my lost decade. It involved dance parties with European strangers in indeterminate stages of undress.

To my chagrin, I am unable to settle the debate. Whether it was a nude or only a semi-clad intruder will have to remain unsettled.

What does it say about me that I do not remember any of this? These events would seem to have made a mark on one’s memories. 

As it turned out, the party with Vincent and Josephine was not the only incident at 29 King Street -- a renovated schoolhouse -- that involved a nude European interloper. My next-door neighbor once pounded on the door donning nothing but a newspaper as a modesty shield. He had locked himself out of his place retrieving the paper and needed access to my large window so he could reenter his apartment via the fire escape. This I remember.

Sometimes I romanticize my youth. I put my New York years on a pedestal and consider them central to my sense of self and how I became who I am today. I tend not to think about things like the nude Europeans as part of my evolution.

Having Vincent randomly text me with all of this amused me infinitely, and underscored how far I have come. At my current station in life, there are no more nude dance parties and certainly not enough alcohol consumption that would impede all memory.

But what a party it apparently was.

My former apartment building in New York