We party-hopped all last night, but our best moment came between events. Leaving one, we spotted a minivan cab whose passengers were about to exit. They fumbled with money. We waited. Then the door slid open and out dropped none other than Björk — in a giant black puffy jacket, a floor-length navy sequined dress, and unlaced brown leather Timberlands (something like these, but with the ankle kind of folded over). It was like she couldn’t decide between going out or doing some track work on the subway. We were practically giddy when we got into the cab. “Do you know who that was!?” we asked our driver. “Björk, you know, the singer.” “I don’t know who that is,” he said. “Well, she’s famous,” we replied. “Oh really?” he asked. “Why’s she famous and only gives me a 60 cent tip?”
