My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [58]
I head outside to wait for my ride. As I take in the surroundings, I notice a familiar man to my right. Hey, that’s Lenny Clarke, the stand-up comedian! Cool! First official celeb sighting! I go to introduce myself because he’s friends with my cousin who performs in Boston comedy clubs. Before I get over to him, I realize he’s in the throes of an animated conversation with another guy I recognize. Even if I hadn’t seen the second man’s face, I’d know that smoky, gravelly voice anywhere.
Denis Leary.
I’m standing right next to Denis Leary.
First a doorbell and now Denis Leary? There’s nothing this hotel can’t provide!
I want to interrupt him and be all confident and outrageous by telling him that my new book’s going to be the one to knock his down a notch on the NYT hardcover nonfiction bestseller list but (a) this may be an utter and complete fabrication as there’s zero evidence this’ll happen, and (b) there is no b. Wait, here we go—(b) I look like an asshole all done up like this, and not the good kind Leary’s always singing about. Damn it.
Before I can come up with a clever way to spin my appearance, my ride arrives and I have to go. We pull out of the Four Seasons driveway, while I gaze longingly back at my missed opportunity.
I guess there’s no cure for confidence, either.
New York: I take in no culture, but I do have a hot dog from a street vendor that’s practically a work of art.
Washington, D.C.: I take in no culture, unless watching Four Chrismases on pay-per-view counts as a cultural experience. (It shouldn’t.)
Dallas: Nothing.
Houston: Nada.
Charlotte: My timing gets all screwed up in North Carolina, and I end up running behind on most of my itinerary stops. Let’s just say this does not positively impact my disposition or level of patience. So, not only do I take in no culture, but I later learn that all those Southerners who remark, “You must be a Yankee,” whenever I lapse into bitch-panic mode aren’t just making an observation that I’m from the North.113
Nashville: Zip.
Atlanta: In a twenty-four-hour day, I’m on the go for twenty-one of them, so at no point do I get to visit the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site. But I do manage to slip into the big Macy’s with the fantastic plus-size department at Lenox Square Mall for a few minutes.
Sometimes I really earn the Shame Rattle.
Portland: I knew that I’d have the whole day to myself after my morning television appearance. Before I even got on the plane, I researched what cultural attraction I’d most like to see, and I decided upon the Portland Museum of Art. They’ve got an extensive collection of silver pieces and lots of European art. Since I’m still intrigued by this whole Renaissance thing, I figure there’s knowledge to be found. Maybe I’ll even pick up a history book in the gift shop.
Before my day-o’-learning, I first have to do my interview. I leave my hotel, where the doorman—dressed up in full Beefeater gear, thank you very much—directs me to my ride. I get in the car and quickly discover that I’m leaving a whole hour before I actually need to.
“Do you want to go back inside for a while or would you rather go get some coffee or donuts and take a little tour of the city?” the driver asks me.
My desire for caffeine trumps the need for sleep, so I say, “Ooh, yes, where’s the nearest Starbucks?”
The driver’s expression immediately sours, and he winces as though he’s been slapped. “I’m not taking you to Starbucks in this town.”
Instead, at his behest, we go to an independent coffeehouse called Stumptown, which is full not only of delicious coffee but also of hipsters, but the hipsters here seem awfully sincere about it. Like, they might actually be artists instead of just dressing like them. I may have even seen