Despite best efforts to be fashionably late for the 8-9pm cocktail hour, we are painfully on time. Oh well—we park the car and begin to search for cellar doors lined with Christmas lights (rule #1 when holding an unlicensed event—always provide partygoers with the bare minimum of recriminating information). Considering the number of buildings on this Greenpoint block improbably flourished with holiday wreaths, it isn’t as simple an operation as one might think.
The inevitable awkward entrance to a party where you don’t know a soul, the expectations, or any of the rules. Should we pay someone (advertised price of admission, $65pp and a bottle of wine to share)? Give our names? In some way prove we’re not random crashers who've stumbled into the basement uninvited? No one seems bothered with any of the formalities, so we park our Pinot on top of the fridge, help ourselves to a lime and ginger cocktail from the makeshift bar, and poke around looking for someone to talk to.