from my table
Originally uploaded by cjbando
The hotel is littered by white folk with the air of entitlement of the upper middle class.
The elegant middle-eastern concierge and the chic, skinny black girl at the desk do not seem to question my being there. But a lone girl checking into a Midtown NY literate-hipster hotel for a night can pique curiosity anywhere one goes be it Cauayan or Manhattan.
Concierge guy goes on to instruct me in all his cosmopolitan metrosexual conciergerie discretion about the rules of the hotel: no smoking... something about me AND my guest... Ooh-la-lah! How very clandestine. He proceeds to ask me wether I am there to shop and I say just to get away. That's not a bad reason at all he says.
I glanced to my left. Two tables away I see Elijah Wood in all-black and a faux hawk sipping espresso like the rest of us civilians. For a minute I thought he has fallen off one of the Tolkiens like an errant bookmark. Trust the fates who take delight in my constant punked state to set my token celebrity sighting in an NYC hotel called the Library Hotel to be Frodo Baggins.
The well-dressed white folks do not appear to wonder about my presence among them or are just good in hiding it like they always do. Perhaps it's due to the buggy eyes of my '07 fall-winter Miss Marc hobo or the DKNY bubble of polar bear and squirrel-- a welcome reject I have snagged from some red-neck outlet store but sshh, don't tell. Sometimes one need not dress to kill, just armed and camouflaged for survival. Natural selection.
A cute staffer of gay-boyfriend material approaches to inform me that my room is finally ready. I stuff my iBook into my backpack, grabbed my annoyingly necessary winter garb. Genetics is destiny and ones claim to the midoclorians, I thought as I flash him my Melki smile.
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