It’s the time of year when NYC is overrun with tourists who are somehow under the impression that the city in winter is worth spending $350 per night for a hotel on. The Rockefeller Center tree lighting, the display windows at Macy’s, the New Year’s Eve celebration in Times Square–these are all things that would be lovely in, say, Florida or California. But in New York, they’re painful and miserable because of the cold. So I guess those $350-per-night hotels are worth it, because that’s where they end up spending all of their time once they realize walking around Central Park isn’t so fun when the wind is eating your face off.
Anyway, I’m particularly annoyed by tourists for no good reason. I’m not one of those people who’s ever in a hurry, and I don’t have any horrible Christmas memories that make me want everyone else’s holidays to suck, but I require the subway to be quiet when I’m on my way to work. So when these massive groups of tourists all board one train car at 8:30 a.m. on their way to the Statue of Liberty every morning, I get my knickers in a bit of a twist.
On one particular morning, I was standing by one of the poles in the far end of a car, surrounded by French people. The French are especially bad, because they’re so darned happy. At least with the Germans, you get mean-sounding accents with harsh-sounding words that only perpetuate your bad morning mood, but the French are always kissing each other and pleasantly tying each other’s scarves around their delightfully pink necks, and all I want to do is knock them down a few notches.