Ghost in Gotham

New York. Again. Sigh. I think: I'd rather be someplace else. No fewer than six someplace-else destinations pop into my head. But it could be much, much worse. I have no real problems, I remind myself. I have work to do here, and that's a good thing. I'm still needed. I'm still, for the moment, valuable.

It's dreary, overcast and muggy. A heat wave is imminent. I'm actually excited as I watch the buildings pass by. Falafel shops. Porn dens. Dunkin' Donuts everywhere. Then there are the trash piles. I remind myself that I'm reading too many travel books lately. The current: "Do Travel Writers Go to Hell?" by Thomas Kohnstamm. It's a decent read, about a lost soul trying to find his way in Brazil, home of the FARC (actually, I guess they're in neighboring Colombia), green anacondas and a few decent death-metal bands.

It's 9:30 a.m. on a Thursday in early June, and I'm stepping out of a cab. The driver leaves me at the mouth of the Paramount Hotel on 46th Street, a stone skip from Times Square. It's under construction. There's nothing but an exoskeleton of scaffolding. A small sign tells me I'm at the right place. The light fades as I leave the street.

Inside it's a much different place. I step through the door and forget where I am. Am I still in the United States, I wonder. The lobby is dimly lit, but the decor shines through the darkness: cut glass, wood, stone. It's elemental, atmospheric. An undercurrent of house music never stops, not even for a beat. It's much different than the Residence Inns and La Quintas I'm used to overnighting in for work. But I suppose it fits for New York City.

The people around me are strange, aliens. Wannabe rock stars cradling their guitar coffins. Businessmen, international, by the looks of them. Gorgeous women of every race and age. Impossibly gorgeous -- plastic, fake, laughable. But I must look the same way to them, I figure: from another planet. Saturn or Neptune, I hope. Those are the best two. Actually, I probably don't even register as a blip on their collective radar. To them I'm wallpaper. Suddenly I feel underdressed. But I'm on assignment. I have to be "on." Otherwise I'd head out the door and get lost somewhere, just to be lost, just to be alone with my thoughts. I do that too much, I remind myself. Forks clank against porcelain, somewhere. Elevators ding. Mouths speak. They don't form words, just noise.

I meet a business acquaintance: a guy I've known for three years but have seen only twice since we first met in Salt Lake City. He's happy to see me. A third joins us and we head to an upstairs cafe for breakfast: yogurt, fruit, coffee. We talk business, spend some time watching videos, scroll through a PowerPoint presentation. It's nice to be speaking with real, live humans for a change. A fourth joins us. He's older but friendly. He's easy to talk to. He makes jokes, provides a few quotes for the story I'll be writing at a later date. I think: I'm glad I'm here.

An hour later, we part ways. I'm on foot, shooting down Broadway. Along the way I notice people gathered on a corner, staring upward. Nobody in New York stops for anything. Immediately I think it, and my lips follow: "King Kong. Please let it be King Kong." Life's more interesting when things such as King Kong, Godzilla, werewolves and other assorted monsters really exist. It turns out some daredevil is scaling the New York Times building. Good for him. I respect him already. But I keep moving.

I'm in the flow, cutting through the crowd and making my own path. I get lost in the sea of people. I'm at elbows with thousands, but I'm alone. I'm unnoticed, a ghost. Then the smell hits me. I must be in New York.