Greg and Trista must have smuggled a bag of flour out of the Il Cortile kitchen, because at this late hour, the plot finally begins to thicken. In the limo, Trista asks Greg (because, indeed, this is the first time they have ever been alone, ever) if he lives by himself. He responds that he does, finishing that declarative statement with a far more shady "Well..." Just you and the roaches, then, oh ye proprietor of Joe's Apartment? It's fine. I know a lot of people in Alphabet City. I would just never live there myself. And neither, clearly, would the lady beside you. Greg explains quickly that he let someone who wasn't him stay at his apartment in his absence, and that the guy "was born in a pile of filth." Oh, no. The cab pulls up in front of Greg's place at 20 Avenue A (now you can go lurk in the hedges and stare into those gorgeous eyes yourselves, ladies), and we enter to find a pretty typical East Village studio apartment with white walls and parquet floors. The couch buts into the adjacent bed and faces a television and stereo on top of what may or may not be the bureau. Trista looks just horrified, but the person I really feel bad for is the poor slob who lives in the apartment across the hall, which is where the camera crew must be set up to capture this 9X14 box from literally any angle. But again, typical. One of my best friends lived in a place almost identical to that one about thirty blocks north (in what some hipsters like Greg would argue is even less of a desirable location) and paid $1,675 for it. A month, people. Trista asks Greg is this is "considered a studio," slowly pronouncing the last word like it's in some dead strain of Urdu that requires clicks and rolls and chanting in quarter tones to get it right. She looks around like she's seen this in a Time-Life Book Of Fantastical Things or heard of its legend in a scaaaary ghost story told to her by a camp counselor holding an "I [heart] New York" flashlight under his chin and telling the horrific tale of "the man who lived in but one room who had no love in his life nor rose on his lapel." She looks around and down toward the kitchen nook, asking hopefully, "Is there a bedroom in there?" Well, actually, if there were a separate bedroom, it wouldn't be called a "studio" at all, and Greg's bed probably wouldn't be out in the middle of the living room, would it? Poor Trista doesn't go with the most sympathetic appeal with the interview clause, "I honestly try not to be superficial..." Heh. "I can't judge Greg without knowing why he lives where he lives, but it's not someplace I see myself being." Whereas the entire eastern third of the viewing demographic is like, "How'd he afford that place?" Fine. Fine. I'll give it up. But I'll bet that place and Ryan's apartment cost exactly the same amount.