My taxi is driven by Arif Mohammad. I find him at the head of the rank, where a 'despatcher' delivers a chit into my hands welcoming me to 'The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey' and giving reassuring estimates of how much one might expect to pay depending to one's destination. No rip-offs here. As I slump in the seat, I deliver the magic words, which, according to my future landlord, will take me to the exact location: "Steinway Street in Astoria, between 25th and 28th Avenues." (For reasons still mysterious, 26th and 27th avenue don't exist). "Astoria", repeats Arif and off we go into the sticky freeway rush hour.

Now, it's normally at this point that you get an enquiry into your health, your origins, your journey and comments about the weather, though not necessarily in that order. Arif? Nothing. And now I came to think of it, he hasn't even said hello. It's almost as if someone has put him to work against his will. There he is, locked into the well of his driving seat, peddling away, the whipcord of a hands-free wire lashing his ear. I don't bat an eye when he repeats "Astoria" again, almost under his breath and continues to speak, I think, in Arabic: no doubt chatting to his controller. However, after a while, I notice that, in between other, barely audible speech, he continues to repeat "Astoria", over and over. "Odd," I think. Then I notice that the mobile phone, attached to the dash board is on standby. He isn't talking to anyone. "Uh-oh: bonkers," I think. "Does he actually know where the hell he's going? Perhaps we'll be driving round like this for the rest of the night..."

After about forty minutes, we draw up outside the sliver front of the Astoria Animal Hospital, a vet practice the size of a small newspaper stand, which is the landmark I was told would identify the apartment building. $32.70... Is a $3 tip enough? My taciturn driver peddles off without further comment and I soon find myself climbing the stairs to the second floor of the building...

Erica welcomes me. Somewhere between 26 and 32, about 5'6" tall, wavy brown hair worn up and dark eyes which sparkle through the oval lenses of her dark framed specs. She seems shy, but is making an effort not to appear so as she shows me into the room, which will be my home here for the next six weeks. Bare wood floors, a silver-painted communal heating pipe, floor to ceiling in the corner, a blue gingham bedspread, book shelves, closet and my roommate: a large fan, pressed against the mesh which covers the open window, whirring away, spilling it's cargo of warm air into the centre of the room with resigned complaint. "Don't mind the Scout." A nervous looking cat, with a coat the colour of coffee-stained sugar, sniffs around my suitcase. "She's the female and is probably kinda pissed off: this is normally her room." I sit down and then meet the "tuxedo male", Brando, who welcomes me by sinking his claws into my knee. Sodding gangster, I think, as it retreats to crouch, immobile, watching my feet. 'Tuxedo' is the description of his colouring: black with white cuffs and collar.

After chatting about Erica's job in the TV production company both she and I are running out of energy: we've both had long days. David, her fella, calls to say he'll be late back. I decide to head out to meet old college chum Jamie Kennedy, before I keel over: two hours sleep Sunday to Monday: my body is at 11pm British time and wants to be horizontal.

I emerge from the Rockefeller subway station with James and my eyes are suddenly pulled skywards by the downtown Manhattan city-scape. He walks on oblivious. "I'm really here," I think, and reflect that an ambition to live and work here, born on my first visit to city in 1991 is being realised. And that private moment of excitement continues for the rest of evening.

James lives in a large studio flat not far from Times Square, which, as with all his living spaces, is beautifully and sensitively decorated. By him. One of his wonderful abstract paintings hangs on the wall. We sip chilled white wine - the glasses frosted with condensate from the humid August evening - and munch our way through tortilla chips and salsa. The hum of city drifts through the open window. We talk, as if we'd only seen each other last week. James reminds me, it's been a year.

He's at the Irish Rep doing Private in Philadelphia Here I Come. He says he makes more money from his art, at the moment. Just as well, since the Irish Rep pay so badly. He seems harder somehow, than when I knew him in London. His face is older. But that may just be the reflection of mine. He speaks like someone who struggles every day to make steps towards the realisation of ambition, but is, more often, frustrated. It's not bitter. But it is determined. Hard, as I said. Perhaps some of that comes from his recently finished relationship with Lee...

Giovanni's for calamari and more wine follows. Robert, director of the show, turns up, suffering with sunburnt ankles: he's just been in California. I share a joke with the people at the next table on the terrace. We borrow first one, then the other of their spare chairs. They joke that perhaps we'd like them to serve the meal too. "Not before you've rubbed my shoulders," I say, proffering them... "Andrew Price is in town!" laughs Robert, a little embarrassed, perhaps.