Something I must finally admit to myself is that–when traveling–I really can’t stand being a guest. I’m just not very good at it. I can’t shed the self-consciousness, that sense of always being in the way, that sense of disrupting the flow of someone else’s life–no matter how generous they are as hosts. It is not their fault that I just want to float invisibly, my presence barely perceptible. It is not their fault that I always feel that I can never give back enough. I can buy dinners, bottles of wine, books, music, somehow it never feels on par with the generosity extended to me. It is not their fault that I would feel much more at home in a hotel… which is where I have decided to spend the remainder of my stay in NYC. it is not really anyone’s fault.
But next time…. a hotel. period.