New York Crazy

It smells like maple syrup in this room.
That's about the only nice thing I have to say.
(According to rules once dictated by my mother and other holy people, I should say nothing that is not nice). Mom and the holies, please don't read on.
So we're in New York (Surprise! It was all very spontaneous. We didn't confirm a place to stay until Thursday night. Surprise, again.). We're staying with this woman who rents out rooms in her $3 million apartment to buy the place from her ex-husband. She brings strangers in her room every night, but she's also sure that he is paying off the doormen to rat her out: "I know it was the black one. That one there."
It's all very dramatic. And racist.
She picked us up from the airport and then gave us her tour of NYC, all the while narrating her various skills and celebrity connections:
"I'd like to do stand-up. I'm very funny."
"I once got hit by a cyclist."
"I'm writing a book and a screenplay. The script is about a couple of dog walkers who fall in love in Central Park. I'm calling it 'Central Arf'."
"I'm a great driver, but I've been doing it since I was 16."