Karolina, the Jordaan's companion for opera nights

Some evenings need company that understands an overture. A premiere at the opera house on the Amstel, a late supper once the applause has faded, then a slow ride back along the river with the Stopera lights shivering on the water: that is the occasion Karolina was made for. Poise comes first with her, discretion a very close second. She steps from a car without a sound, crosses a lobby as though she has done it all her life and gives nothing away to anyone but you. Even the doorman remembers only a flash of black silk and a polite nod.

Tall at 174 cm and slim, with glossy black hair kept long and straight and brown eyes that barely need makeup, she wears sleek minimalist glamour: clean black lines, one statement piece, no clutter at all. Twenty-seven, and so dry-witted that a punchline often arrives as nothing more than a raised eyebrow. Music runs through everything she does. She plays piano, and a grand in a hotel lounge is dangerously tempting; with a little encouragement she may try a few bars. Opera moves her in a way she will gladly unpack over dessert, from a soprano's final breath to a staging she thought was brave. By daylight she takes architecture walks, reading the gables of old canal houses the way other people skim a menu. Margo is another pianist on the roster, equally refined, over in Oud-Zuid.

She leaves from the Jordaan, only a handful of bridges from the canal belt and the Waterlooplein, and the conversation happens in English. Mention the performance and the curtain time when you write. She will plan the drive so that, when the final chord fades and you step out into the night air, the rest of your evening is already close by, engine idling, her silhouette in the passenger window.