The Butler is Back

Here's my room. It is cavernous. It's found behind a wrought iron gate and armed, bomb-sniffing, beret-wearing guards, a full-blown airport luggage scanner, a keyed elevator, a keyed vestibule, and finally a keyed door. It all works like clockwork, except for the keyed door. But I have a butler to rescue me from the inconvenience. Each night he invites me to share a drink with him in the private lounge, and each night I disappoint him.

I think he invites everyone. As butlers go, he's fairly socially promiscuous. I think I prefer my butlers to be more stern and disapproving.

There are disturbing chairs guarding the keyed vestibule. 

This one must be six feet tall. Who would ever sit in a chair like that? Who would ever buy one? The other one must be six feet wide. The same questions come to mind.  Is there significance to the facts that the white one protects the entrance to the vestibule and the orange one oversees the exit? Skinny when you enter; fat when you exit? Seems New Delhi's municipal water would have something to say about that.

My colleague, Ted Rivera, writes: "My hotel room in India is thoughtfully stocked with four movies: the Ben Kingsley version of Ghandi, Ben Hur, Inception, and Children of the Corn IV. You can't make this stuff up."

Mine is stocked with Blood Diamond, You Don't Get to 500 Million Friends Without Making a Few Enemies, and Jerry McGuire. Some guys get all the luck.