NYC Misadventures

Let me preface this by saying that nothing genuinely bad has happened to me while I’ve been in New York. I know it could so I hesitate to express my alternating amusement and annoyance over my stay so far, because none of it has been a big deal. However, since a blog is supposed to report what’s been going on, journalistic requirements necessitate that I do so. First, our hotel is pretty much a dump. Yes, it’s in Times Square and it’s safe. That is where its redeeming qualities end. Call me a silly Midwesterner if you like but I really would have thought that $269 a night could get you internet or a pool or a bar or a room big enough to have a table to work at or fully functional sinks and showers. But, alas, no. This place actually violates what I thought was a pretty sound rule of thumb. That is, if the property value of a place is way more than what it costs to make it luxurious then it will probably be luxurious. I came to believe this when I lived in San Diego and it has been consistently reinforced at hotels ever since. I remember spending a lot of time thinking about it because various friends and family that visited me in San Diego commented on how luxurious my apartment was and seemed to be inferring that my financial woes were directly related to it. What I knew (because I’d done an exhaustive search) was that it was not possible to get cheaper accommodations within an hour of my workplace and they were all luxurious. The only way that I could account for this was that the property value was so much more than the cost of providing sweet amenities that all the places just went ahead and provided them. Conference hotels that I’ve been at have all been this way as well. It’s not until I came to the Milford Plaza in Times Square that it was different. Anyway, I’ve been treated with incredulous looks when I’ve asked if there was a pool or a lounge with tables to sit at or a bar. What’s amusing is not that they don’t have any of these but that the staff actually seems to think the very notion is laughable.

Since Ben is gone to visit his family today I figured I’d sleep in, cruise the internet (did I mention I moved to an internet accessible room, then paid $10 for it only to have it quit working around 9:15 this morning?), go to one or more of the three museums I was interested in, then get some work done tonight, have a drink and hit the sack. As it turns out I was awakened by a member of the cleaning staff vacuuming immediately outside my door at 8:30am. Now before you suggest that I might have put the ‘Privacy Please’ sign on my door let me assure you that I DID put the ‘Privacy Please’ sign on my door. I peeked out at one point to see if it was still there and noticed that several other nearby rooms were similarly adorned.

So I got up, opened the blinds and turned on my computer. I was able to use the internet long enough to discover that all three of the museums that I wanted to see today are closed on Monday. I checked a few others to see if all museums are closed on Monday but no, only the three I wanted to see. That’s ok, I thought. I’ll just work hard today and see the big museum tomorrow, the small museum Wednesday morning and the medium-sized one some other time.
I took a Starbucks break at this point and when I returned the internet had quit working. Having no table to work at in my room, none obvious in the hotel, and the Starbucks jammed with people I was briefly at a loss as to where I might work. I spent much time contemplating how to solve this problem. Much like Pooh Bear, I sat, very still, with my tongue slightly out, thinking harder than a physiologist of very little brain ought and finally it occurred to me: a library! Yes, that’s what I’d do. I’d go to a library. In order to find a library I did what I always do when I need help and the internet is not available; I called my Dad. I would strongly suggest that anyone in a similar predicament call my Dad. He just understands the nature of problems and is generally quite helpful in bringing them to a happy conclusion. It’s one of his more agreeable qualities. Anyway, it turns out the nearest library was a mere 8 blocks away. Considerably buoyed by my apparent success I set off almost at once for the Manhattan branch of the NYC Public Library. Eight blocks on a hot day carrying a computer, anatomy book and notebook through incredibly crowded streets was a bit of a hassle but nothing really to speak of. I had my bag checked as I entered the library and then again on the third floor as I entered the study room. That seemed extreme to me and I admit my enthusiasm for the library was beginning to wane somewhat. However, I found a place to set up shop and got a fruitful hour’s work done. Unfortunately I had to quit after an hour due to hypothermia. Apparently the NYC library system manages crowds by making the place so cold that no one stays there for long. I think anyone who has spent any reasonable amount of time with me knows that I don’t get cold in the summertime easily. Various housemates and hotel roomies have been forced to don extra clothing because of the frigid climes that I prefer. That makes the temperature in the library being cold enough to drive me out truly startling.

So I decided to leave. My bag was checked twice more on the way out. This was truly annoying. Think to yourself for a moment: what would the NYC Public Library fear you bringing in (cuz they checked my bag twice on the way in) and what would they fear you taking out (cuz they checked it again twice on my way out)? Now consider what was in my bag: several different types of power cords, a small, not easily recognizable MP3 player, an oddly-shaped box (had DVDs in it), a computer, an anatomy textbook and some Skittles. The annoying part is not that they had a bag check. But that they had four separate bag checks, each with a line of people and then DIDN’T really inspect my bag at all. Each bag checker glanced at my bag and said “fine, go ahead”. On the way in my bag could not possibly have said “that could be a bomb” or “he’s carrying food” more clearly than it did and on the way out it could not have been more plain that I was walking out with an academic-looking book and no receipt for it. Truly, I don’t understand.

I won’t bore the reader further with my adventures of: asking one of the staff members at the hotel whether there were any tables to work at only to find that she only spoke Spanish (rest assured, hilarity insued), or the one in which I asked someone else whether I could use the room on the third floor that had the six small tables and the coffee maker only to be told that “The Milford Club” was reserved for those making substantial contributions to the hotel, or the one in which two drunk women at the table next to me asked if I’d like to join them for dinner, or my personal favorite, wherein the protagonist stops at a liquor store that has gin but no tonic or lime, a deli that has lime but no gin or tonic and a pharmacy that has tonic but no gin or lime.