It was a perfect New York art storm — Kandinsky, the Bauhaus, Monet, Georgia O’Keeffe, Hockney and Richard Serra — for starters. And it was all happening as winter gales descended on the rock, a good time to get away.

My cousin Lanny McDowell and I fought our way through Wednesday’s snowstorm, passing three jackknifed trucks and at least two cars nosed into snow banks (one of them a state police patrol vehicle) to arrive in late afternoon. Two days wasn’t nearly enough. What follows is a sample.

End of day found us at Freemans, across the street from our hotel and up a narrow Bowery alley, where every night it’s standing room only. Frank poured a brace of martinis. We were surrounded by 30-somethings, slim and beautiful women and their buff companions (I have never seen so many perfect teeth) but we didn’t have time to feel out of place. The crowd was gregarious and engaging and ready to include two geezers in their chatter.