So, I’m sitting here in my hotel room, exhausted after a day at The Next Big Idea branded entertainment conference. Some interesting things came out of it in terms of user-generated content, guerilla marketing and the like, but I’m not going to talk about that.
Instead, I’m going to talk about how utterly miserable my trip here was.
First of all, let me say that I do not travel to the U.S. very often. Second of all, let me say “thank Christ.” After declaring nothing but my genius at the ticket desk, I moved on to the customs rape station, where Chris, my CATSA rapist for the day proceeded to poke and prod me, looking for God knows what in my armpits.
“Let me know if you find a lump,” I said.
Chris chuckled as he continued to molest my person.
After finishing this ordeal, and resisting the temptation to lean in and whisper “I have a boner,” to the unwitting security employee, I moved on to the ‘merican side where I was interviewed by a fellow who bore a striking resemblance to Jack Bauer. He asked me where I was going, what kind of conference I was going to and if I was now, or had ever been a member of the communist party. I answered his questions honestly, but for some reason, my normally cool demeanor was replaced by that of someone who was clearly guilty of something. I was close to turning myself in, and I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I would be an awful member of an Al Queda sleeper cell.
Finally, after answering a pantsload of emails while waiting for my plane and listening to David Allen’s “Getting Things Done” on my iPod, I boarded the smallest plane I’ve ever been on - one that constantly felt as if it was falling out of the sky.
Note to self: do not watch an episode of that Negotiator show where an air traffic controller distraught over killing a plane full of people takes an air traffic tower hostage the night before flying. Bad, bad idea.
So, I arrive in Newark. I find out that I can either wait for an hour for the next shuttle, or I can pay out the ass for a car to my hotel. I opt for the latter.
We drove through New Jersey (whose state bird is the fart) and I managed to get through it only dry heaving at the smell three times. Finally, I arrived at my hotel, and the driver couldn’t give me a receipt. How am I supposed to expense this, I asked. He had no answer.
So, I arrive, tired and annoyed and check into my hotel, only to find out that my travel agent (who is not my travel agent anymore, by the way) had messed up the reservations, and had not, as she had told me, paid in advance for the room. This was a problem, since I had paid for an extremely expensive conference on my credit card, and had only ensured that enough for expenses was available before leaving.
After the hassle of getting my receptionist to fax in a copy of our corporate card (where it should have gone), I made my way up to my $310 a night room. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever walked into a room, and immediately thought to yourself “yep, there was definitely a hooker killed here in the 40s,” but I can now honestly say that I have. Maybe I’m spoiled, but I usually assume that very expensive hotel rooms will not have holes in the covers, duct tape on the faucet, and an odd looking stain that mildly resembles Groucho Marx on the curtains.
I then met up with a friend of mine who recently moved to NY, and we went to a nearby Chinese restaurant, in which the waiter apparently hated us, and didn’t offer me chop sticks. That aside, the meal was pleasant, as was the company.
I woke up the next morning at 6am to some hip hop station on the radio, and proceeded to get up to have a shower. After waiting 15 minutes for the water to get to tepid, I cleaned myself, and went downstairs to leave for the conference.
Now, where I’m from, we have this system where you call a number, talk to a person, and someone in a car shows up to drive you around. Apparently, they’re just getting that here, because when I asked the fellow at the front desk to call me a cab, he told me that he’d been trying to get through for an hour, and it would be faster for me to hail one myself.
I walked outside in the rain to the appropriate side of the street, unaware that hailing a cab in NY was a competitive sport. After I politely didn’t kick the shit out of the guy who walked out in front of me and hailed the only cab I’d seen in 10 minutes, I tried for another 10 and finally went back inside and got step by step instructions on how to get to Times Square via the Subway.
After being shoved against a pole with 600 other smelly people, I got off at my stop, and walked 15 minutes in the rain to my conference. Thankfully, I’d stopped at a pharmacy and bought an umbrella (paying $5 more for the one that did NOT say “I love NY” on it), so when I arrived, only my left arm and ass was completely soaking wet.
After a day of schmoozing and glad-handing, I had a sandwich for dinner and went back to my hotel room, which is why I’m in New York City for one day, and I’m blogging instead of watching Spamalot. I have two meetings tomorrow, and then I repeat the airport unpleasantness before I return home, where we spell “cheque” correctly, and it’s slightly more rare to see someone have an extended, heated exchange with a bus shelter ad.
