Years ago, I lived in a small walk-up apartment on East 47th Street in New York. One of the nice things about it was that in good weather I could go around the corner and read in the U.N. gardens while, a few yards away, camera-toting saps from around the world lined up to be escorted around the place and be fed total B.S. about its glorious history by their tour guides.
Also, I was delighted to discover that one of the residents on the next block over was none other than Katharine Hepburn, whom I saw from time to time taking out her garbage as I walked past her townhouse lugging books home from the Mid-Manhattan Library. Not too shabby.
There were, however, not-so-nice things about my little flat.