The bathroom door is the foot of the bed. No, you heard me correctly, it’s not at the foot of the bed, it is the foot of the bed. So we must leave these bathroom doors open while we sleep, while we shower, while we use the toilet.
We are in a hotel in Manhattan, that 2005 Lynn (who lived in Queens) cannot believe we can actually afford to stay in. It’s in a neighborhood called “NoMad,” which I refuse to say out loud because nobody called it that when I had been a New Yorker. “North of Madison Square Park?” Once upon a time, my favorite NYC park. I used to commute on the N train with my dog in a bag there, to play in the dog run with the other pampered pooches. I wondered if anyone could tell we weren’t supposed to be there. That I was just pretending we belonged.
But 2021 Lynn still doesn’t belong. In fact, 2021 Lynn just doesn’t understand this city anymore. The line at Trader Joes that snakes around the entire store for a bag of ginger chews? The subway ApplePay system that accidentally double charges if I hold my thumb down for too long? The hotel SMEG fridge that looks beautiful but sounds like a horror film…
Oh yes, back to this hotel. There are the requisite plush robes and a safe with a code. There are snacks you can buy two avenues over at Whole Foods for half the already ridiculous price. There is an acoustic guitar balanced on the wall between two…
