My father found New York to be everything he ever dreamed of and immediately started fantasizing about his future life there. He had always thought he would stay there forever, but fate wanted otherwise. He never planned to fall in love and if he hadn't he would probably still be alive. But then of course I wouldn't exist. It's the little things.
He had wandered the streets looking for a job and a place to stay when he was picked up by a group of young musicians living in Brooklyn. They took him in on the promise that he would work as a manager for them, finding gigs and establishing contacts with people in the recording industry. For a foreigner who didn't know anyone in New York he wasn't the obvious choice for the job, but he didn't complain.
During the following couple of weeks he spent more time at parties than he thought was humanly possible. One had the theme "black & white" after Truman Capote's legendary ball, people walked around in heavy clouds of pot smoke in their underwear and elaborate Venetian masks. He had the time of his life.
At 3 in the morning, as he was spinning around in the middle of a crowded dance floor, someone came up to him from behind, put a light hand on his shoulder and shouted in his ear: Do you like Mick Jagger?