I’m looking out my hotel room window, deeply resenting that not one person in the apartment building across the way is doing anything interesting. I also resent that three of them on this side have sizable patios and none of them has done a thing with theirs. Those people do not deserve patios. Or to be across from a hotel full of bored business travelers. Double fail.
Tonight my Greek cab driver dropped me off with the Jamaican hotel valet. Inside I ordered my dinner from the Irish barman. That might be all my entertainment for the evening.
My Dad always told me traveling for work isn’t very much fun. By his scale, he was right. Even the coolest city loses a lot of luster when it’s packed with work obligations and low on friends and family. But Dad also was almost entirely free of little-kid responsibility, and so he never knew just how sweet a lonely hotel room bed can be. A friend once told me to banish my guilt about traveling. Her reasoning was that I have to go anyway and so I have a moral obligation to enjoy it for all those moms who will never get a night themselves.
This trip hit Alden hard. He cried and cried last night, begging me to cancel my trip. We stayed up together for a long time (sorry teachers!) and talked through his sadness. I don’t know what’s worse, when they get upset or when they seem resigned. I guess those are both better than indifference.
Two guys now visible in apartments across the way. One is on a computer. Once is making a snack. Boring. I don’t get to come to NY very often, guys. Roll up a rug in a decidedly suspicious manner. Hide some gold bars under the floor boards. Something. The minute go to sleep, someone is going to dance around naked. I’ll miss it, but at least I’ll have this bed all to myself.