Let's talk about how blindingly brilliant Miles behaved on the flights, coming and going. On the flight north, he played, giggled, crawled across laps, and scarfed down (duh!) chex. Returning home, Miles snuggled with his dada and snoozed for 85% of the flight, including turbulence and landing. Nary a budging eyelid when the tires touched the runway. Nope, he was too globe-trotting savvy to do that. Taxing up to the gate is when he stirred.
Our "hotel" (and you'll see why I use printed air quotes in a bit) was one block away from Times Square, which means it was at actual ground zero for sirens, horns, drunk yodeling, jack hammers, and screeching tires. We booked rooms with an artys looking Best Western. What we arrived at was a skoch different. One piece of advice, be leery when making reservations in a Best Western that boasts having a sushi bar. While the sushi bar wasn't open, the purple neon fish tank behind the receptionist was open for business. I get that the site wants a certain new age chic-meets funky-meets space age bordello look. What I don't get is why anyone would find it attractive. The hallways' wallpaper was heisted from Dolly Parton's dresser, and the creepy Presidential touches have scarred my memory. For example, in a display case by the elevators, the sat a lone powdered wig on metal claws. In its intentional isolation, the wig looked more like a specimen than an artistic statement.
I'll just let the pictures do the remainder of my talking because I could go on and on about this hotel.
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