Dear Wigleaf,
I'm writing to you from Donald Trump, which turned out to be cheaper,
this time of year, than Costa Rica, so I changed my original plans. My
lodgings smell of Paul Mitchell products and are not unpleasantly
moist. Overall, it's more than I expected for what I paid (thanks
Priceline!) and, as it turns out, a really nice, relaxing way to see
the city.
There are others here who are not as happy as I. They won't talk to me
when I pass them in the darker, older hallways in the south wing and
they keep me awake all night with their hollow moans. I try to be
polite, but I am just about to raise a stink with management. I don't
want to sound ungrateful—the food is amazing and the package,
all-inclusive—but there's something to be said for basic
courtesy, for the kindnesses that are the glue of our fragile human
community. They bare their teeth at me from the miasmic corners of this
grand old place and I can see very clearly through the gloom that they
are not smiling.
Yours,
Susan
- - -
Read SM's story, "The Last Night They Spent Together
Before the Separation."
w i g · l e a F
10-17-10
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