The Visible Woman...February 27, 2003

The less said about flying, the better. We fly in coach. I swallow enough Dimetapp to almost equalize my ears. The bistro bag on the long flight from DFW to JFK is particularly bad. The turkey lunch meat contains a good-sized piece of bone. And the bread is cold and clammy and I'm not smart enough to just eat the cheese and meat. The plane is completely full.

So...we arrive. We expect to see our car service at baggage claim, but don't. The plane was actually early. I'm not too worried, I figure get the luggage. FFP is flitting around looking for them. I wait by the belt. I turn on my cell phone and call the service. I notice I have a message. Short term parking is closed and the car is circling the airport. We get our bags and go out and have a conversation with the driver on the cell. He tells us to go to bus stop 9 or something. There are barricades and we seem to have to cross them to get there but we do and he drives up, no problem. It's 5pm but traffic isn't terrible going in and soon we are checking into the Iroquois Hotel on 44th Street.

FFP has a little headache so we ask the bellman to get someone to send up a pot of coffee. He failed to drink enough coffee today, a mistake I never make. We unpack. The room is tiny, but well-appointed. The hangers disengage from the rod. But there aren't enough. We ask for more. We ask for a second robe. The room overlooks an air shaft. We will be glad not to have a street view later. James Dean lived here once when it was a residence hotel. I trot out the old laptop to try their DSL. But its hard drive apparently died on the security belt or taking hard knocks from an agressive 'carryon everything' passenger who tried to torque and squeeze my laptop backpack to get his stuff in. Oh, well. They have access in the library, the bellman claimed.

We drink the coffee and unpack everything.

FFP runs out to find some after shave. He has kind of a tradition of forgetting something and having to shop for it. Or so he can shop for it, I'm not sure. He reports that the gift shop in the Sofitel next door is pretty great and he is happy with the fragrance he buys.

The restaurant here in the hotel has gotten a credible review. We change clothes and call about a table. Then we go down check out the Internet access in the library. It's fine and we are able to delete a bunch of e-mail about slimming down or beefing up parts of ourselves to engage in wild and wanton sex acts with people with no last names while repairing our credit. We get a table in the small restaurant (Le Triomphe) and have a nice meal with a bottle of Gary Farrell Pinot Noir. Our waitress is named Sarah and she is from Richardson, Texas. She came to be a dancer but has given up. Soon she will marry in Kerrville, Texas.

Not quite ready for bed, we walk across the street and walk through the ultra hip lobby of the Royalton hotel but don't stay. Instead, we go to the lobby bar of the Algonquin, overseen by a manager named Kendall. We trade Dorothy Parker quotes with her. She says a friend of hers was in a play in Austin that had dinosaur in the title. "The Dinosaur Within!" we say. We saw that about a year ago. Our friend Karen was in it. Connections.

We hang around drinking our B&B on the rocks. There is a terribly young woman surrounded by papers and wearing a shawl who Forrest declares is a 'Dorothy Parker wannabe.' A very, very young man meets up with her. They are driinking tea, I think. The bar is busy. Then the show in the Oak Room lets out and the very young singer, Peter Cincotti, is surrounded by fans wanting autographs and congratulating him.

We are fading. Time for the hotel bed and a book.

			travel We are up very early. Showered, dressed, last things packed. We drive ourselves to the airport and seek out a private parking facility someone recommended called FasPark. They give us a complimentary paper and a bus drives up right to our parking spot and the driver loads our stuff. We are way, way early, of course. Pathologically punctual, we call it. We like it this way. We get through security. It's FFP's turn to take off his shoes and stuff. We read. I have coffee and buy an over-priced bottle of water. We read some more. We move to the gate area and read some more. Of course, we have to take a couple of bathroom breaks. The less said about flying, the better. We fly in coach. I swallow enough Dimetapp to almost equalize my ears. The bistro bag on the long flight from DFW to JFK is particularly bad. The turkey lunch meat contains a good-sized piece of bone. And the bread is cold and clammy and I'm not smart enough to just eat the cheese and meat. The plane is completely full. So...we arrive. We expect to see our car service at baggage claim, but don't. The plane was actually early. I'm not too worried, I figure get the luggage. FFP is flitting around looking for them. I wait by the belt. I turn on my cell phone and call the service. I notice I have a message. Short term parking is closed and the car is circling the airport. We get our bags and go out and have a conversation with the driver on the cell. He tells us to go to bus stop 9 or something. There are barricades and we seem to have to cross them to get there but we do and he drives up, no problem. It's 5pm but traffic isn't terrible going in and soon we are checking into the Iroquois Hotel on 44th Street. FFP has a little headache so we ask the bellman to get someone to send up a pot of coffee. He failed to drink enough coffee today, a mistake I never make. We unpack. The room is tiny, but well-appointed. The hangers disengage from the rod. But there aren't enough. We ask for more. We ask for a second robe. The room overlooks an air shaft. We will be glad not to have a street view later. James Dean lived here once when it was a residence hotel. I trot out the old laptop to try their DSL. But its hard drive apparently died on the security belt or taking hard knocks from an agressive 'carryon everything' passenger who tried to torque and squeeze my laptop backpack to get his stuff in. Oh, well. They have access in the library, the bellman claimed. We drink the coffee and unpack everything. FFP runs out to find some after shave. He has kind of a tradition of forgetting something and having to shop for it. Or so he can shop for it, I'm not sure. He reports that the gift shop in the Sofitel next door is pretty great and he is happy with the fragrance he buys. The restaurant here in the hotel has gotten a credible review. We change clothes and call about a table. Then we go down check out the Internet access in the library. It's fine and we are able to delete a bunch of e-mail about slimming down or beefing up parts of ourselves to engage in wild and wanton sex acts with people with no last names while repairing our credit. We get a table in the small restaurant (Le Triomphe) and have a nice meal with a bottle of Gary Farrell Pinot Noir. Our waitress is named Sarah and she is from Richardson, Texas. She came to be a dancer but has given up. Soon she will marry in Kerrville, Texas. Not quite ready for bed, we walk across the street and walk through the ultra hip lobby of the Royalton hotel but don't stay. Instead, we go to the lobby bar of the Algonquin, overseen by a manager named Kendall. We trade Dorothy Parker quotes with her. She says a friend of hers was in a play in Austin that had dinosaur in the title. "The Dinosaur Within!" we say. We saw that about a year ago. Our friend Karen was in it. Connections. We hang around drinking our B&B on the rocks. There is a terribly young woman surrounded by papers and wearing a shawl who Forrest declares is a 'Dorothy Parker wannabe.' A very, very young man meets up with her. They are driinking tea, I think. The bar is busy. Then the show in the Oak Room lets out and the very young singer, Peter Cincotti, is surrounded by fans wanting autographs and congratulating him. We are fading. Time for the hotel bed and a book.

	stolen from ebay, of course "On any person who desires such queer prizes, New York will bestow the gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy." E.B. White
	JUST TYPING I hate flying. But sitting in the airport. Watching people. Is not so bad.

Thursday, February 27, 2003