Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I just arrived at my home-away-from-home for the next week, The Maritime Hotel in the Chelsea district of Manhattan. I’ve done this trip many times before, so I came prepared. The city that bills itself as the Big Apple greets singles with wide open arms and outstretched hands.

However, the singles I’m talking about are not unattached males and females; Oh no. I’m talking cold, hard cash in the form of the one dollar bill. Nowhere else in my travels is one dollar used as frequently to thank the bellhop who grabs your luggage when you step from the cab (You hardly have a choice to carry your own stuff.), or to tip the hotel steward for bringing ice (There is no ice machine at the Maritime.). Or to reward your barista at Starbucks (Where I live, the baristas are not allowed to accept tips!). Or to show gratitude for a thousand little things we in the Midwest assume are just part of the service one is due.

I went to the bank before I left home and “bought” fifty one dollar bills to dispense during my week’s stay. So far I’ve parted with four of them, and I’ve been in town less than an hour. At least I’m now sitting in my comfy hotel room with an evening’s supply of ice. Keith and Chris will arrive soon with our alcoholic beverages of choice — at least I don’t have to tip them for making a liquor store stop — and we’ll begin our marathon gabfest.