RIP Rooms*

Alan Feuer: Here's an old story:

A traveling barfly finds himself in a small town near the border and entertains the locals at the tavern one night with amazing tales of his adventures. This barfly has been everywhere, of course, and makes a great impression, especially on a young man of romantic nature who, alas, is rather poor.

Early the next morning, the young man turns up at the traveler's room, eager to thank him for the words of inspiration he heard the night before. But the barfly seems distracted and, as he pours himself the first drink of the day, he turns and says: "Please, sir. If you really want to help, tell me where I am, not what you learned."

For the last 12 months, this column has been many places: in a sweatshop, at a sex club, at the morgue and at the mayor's office, in kitchens and bathrooms and, once, in a bowling alley in the basement of the Frick. The idea, all along, was fairly simple: to look at the interiors of the city and, working on a micro level, to explore the rich fabric of New York.