Ill-considered Consequences.

One thing that the Broadway stagehands who are currently on strike declined to think about when they decided that they hated freedom was the effect they would have on the hospitality industry, in particular hospitality bloggers. This place has been something of a ghost town over the past few weekends. But there were a few interesting things that happened, which I will examine more minutely than they really deserve.

--There is one Spanish girl, cute, with that great accent but also a little bit of a unibrow, who asked me where she could get a tattoo and then left with some girlfriends for apparently just that reason, so I'll keep you up to date on that.

--Two good-natured, cute middle-aged women were quite insistent on me painstakingly providing them with directions on how to get to Times Square from the hotel. The answer to this question is simply "Walk to the end of the block" with a point of the finger to indicate which direction. Our conversation went as follows:

Me, pointing the way: "So just go out the hotel and walk down the street"
Bigger lady: "So how will we know when we're there"
Me: "Oh, I think you'll know. It's a bit hard to miss"
Smaller lady: "So we do need to turn left or right when we get there?"
Me: "No, I mean, the whole area is Times Square...it's a whole stretch of Broadway that runs from like 41st St. to like 48th St."
Bigger lady: "So how do we know we're going the right way?"
Me: "Just...follow the lights"
Smaller lady, confused: "Which..which lights?"
Me: "The brighter, the better,"
Smaller lady, meekly: "And which way out of the hotel?"

--Man, calling down from his room, "What's the number for B-B-Q (sic)?"

UPDATE: The Senorita returns.

Me: Will you show me your tattoo?
'Cita: Ohh, no, I didn't get it. I am going to get it tomorrrrow.
Me: What are you going to get?
'Cita: A sun, on my lowerr back.

Me (Both my accent and my attitude are about 50% me and 50% Zorro): How big will it be?
'Cita: Small, I think. She makes a circle with her thumb and forefinger. This is sexierr, I think.
Me, smiling and nodding so demurely it's like I don't even exist anymore. Yes, I think this is sexier.

'Cita, shifting into flirty general conversation: The barrrs they close so earrly in Amerrica. This is at 4:30 in the morning.
Me, with my head tilted, trying to appear simultaneously languid, as if it wouldn't worry me in the least if a predator were to approach, and poised to strike, should one do so: Well, it's not that early.

'Cita: In Mexico, the barrs don't close until 6 a.m. In New Jers E (sic), the barrrs neverr close.
Me, thrown utterly by this strange New Jersey reference: New Jersey?
'Cita: Si, New Jers E. Big parrty then."
Me: Oh, New Years Eve!"
'Cita: Yes, Yes.

She heads off to bed. "Good luck with your tattoo," I call out, rolling the 'r' as much as I can (but not enough to deserve a second 'r')

She smiles radiantly, and at that moment I hope she and her beautiful unibrow will come back so we can make out.

And, as they always do, she comes back. And as they always do, she simply asks for her key.