Fear and Loathing at the BEA

Again, this is a guest post by my husband, Pierre. And can I just add that I am not responsible for anything he says.

Day two in the Big Apple.

I learned from yesterday's over-indulgence, so I went easy last night with Grandma Clampet's medicine so this morning my head didn't feel like a suppurated mango.

We had breakfast in a hotel restaurant, the kind of place that gets it mostly right, and I piled my plate with salmon and capers. That may have been a mistake, because when people smell fresh raw fish on your breath before 9:00 a.m., they can't quite place the smell and tend to avoid you. My alienation and generally awful awkwardness was, however, just beginning. As we stood in line for the shuttle bus to the convention center, I noticed that everyone was dressed business casual. Some wore suits. And the women were grim-faced. This created an odd burning sensation in the waistband of my jeans where I had forgotten to put on my belt. Never mind. It's better to be under-dressed than over-dressed. Unless you're going to a book convention crammed with khaki wearing professorial types with fussy beards. Then being under-dressed means approaching a booth and having its oh-so-slightly desperate sales-rep ask you when you'll be removing the trash. Now, I wasn't going to talk about the crowds because then you'd think all I do is complain, but I'm only happy when I'm unhappy so I'll say this about the crowds. Most of the exposition floor had that War-is-Imminent-And-That-Over-There-is-the-Last-Train feel to it. I left early and went to Rockefeller Plaza but got lost in the diamond district.