What’s in a name?
Recently I booked into the White House—no not that one—mine was located on New York’s Bowery. The red carpet and flaming torches at the door were a wonderful sight to behold. The crisp sound of my shoes on the floor as I walked up to reception was a thing of beauty. I couldn’t believe all this luxury was being delivered at a budget price.
It wasn’t. I was in the wrong place.
I was in the Bowery Hotel. The White House was across the street. The board with the name White House written on it told me so. To be fair, it was clean, safe and friendly, but is the only establishment I have ever stayed where my feet and head made contact with the walls… at the same time. I may be tall, but I am not Bigfoot. I imagine prison cells are more spacious.
Real life can be stranger even than fiction.
I used to busk (play music in the street) in Scotland’s windswept capital. The Edinburgh of Alexander McCall Smith is indeed a place of contradiction and mystery. After playing, I used to go to an upmarket club, where there was no dress code, to have my tea and biscuits. When the club was put up for sale, I was given the opportunity to look in my hat for the millions of dollars asking price. In the belief that there might be some money I hadn’t seen tucked under the brim, I agreed to run the place for a week whilst we all considered our options. I discovered firsthand what a hotbed of human emotion and intrigue such places are. Needless to say, my brim was empty and the club’s fortunes and mine were not intertwined for all eternity.
Matilda does not find favour with everyone, unfortunately. A letter to the hotel alleged Matilda was wandering in food areas (a crime by NY’s food safety standards). The solution was to introduce an invisible electric fence around the lobby. I think this was unnecessary. A consultation with me would have solved the problem: when I showed Matilda the criminally-high cocktail prices, she was gone in a flash. In fairness, this is New York and the prices were not any greater than those in other luxury establishments where, in order to wet your whistle, you have to trade an arm or leg, if not both. Matilda would have known that if she got out more.
Dirk Robertson is a Scots thriller writer, currently in Virginia where he is promoting literacy and art projects for young gang members. When not writing, tweeting, or blogging on the Mystery Writers of America website, he designs and knits clothes and handbags from recycled rubbish.
Matilda the Cat! How cool. Hemingway would’ve felt right at home at the Algonquin, huh? He did love his cats.
Great post!
Thanks. You’re right. Hemingway would have fitted right in. I must see if he ever visited and joined in the literary scene, at the time. It is closed for refurbishment just now so I will wait for it to open again, before I return to say hello to Matilda.
I returned to The Algonquin, now re-opened. Groucho Marx certainly hung out there. I forgot to investigate further, about the erstwhile Mister Hemingway. I’ll just have to stay again!