On a typically atypical Wednesday morning I made my way to the hotel’s mid-tower and knocked on one of the press-board doors that separate the inmates from those of us that try to run this particular asylum, not having any idea what awaited me.
Little did I know the sweetest Crasian (crazy Asian) to ever visit North America was prepared to provide me with some of the best blog fodder a blogging bellman could ever ask for. She was ten New York City phone books high, with hair as black as night and eyes as bright as the North star.
And an attitude to match.
This is one of those times where my limitations as a writer prevent me from conveying the stereotypical nature and sheer hilarity of an accent, but I’ll do my best.
“OH HELLO!” she welcomed me warmly and LOUDLY, something I’m truly not used to after two decades of dealing with guests that barely have a heartbeat before noon, never mind a sunny (and loud/proud) disposition.
“I have a cooler! Veeerry heavy, so I help you!” were the next thick words to fall from her lips like a thousand-pound weight.
I assured her I could handle her cooler and did so immediately, a feat that pleased her more than I ever could have imagined.
“OH, YOU SUPERMAN! SUPERMAN! SUPERMAN!”
I have to admit, I nearly dropped the cooler as I stifled my laughter. My newest fan then proceeded to follow me to her second room down the hall, shouting, “SUPERMAN! SUPERMAN!” the whole way. Four of her traveling companions were equally entertaining; tying their backpacks to the cart in order to prevent any upsets and generally fussing over the care their belongings would receive from “Superman” as he stored them for the day.
At any rate, the Crasians went about their day and I eagerly awaited their return. The entire group, which had swelled to about fifteen by the end of the day (did they spontaneously reproduce while down by the Falls, I wonder?) eventually returned and directed me to their ginormous van in a cacophony of voices. I unloaded (and untied) their bags, that infamous cooler and boxes of Asian cuisine and then awaited my gratuity, curious to see what sort of tip a superhero garnered.
My little Crasian lady handed me two American dollars as though they were bars of gold.
“I’m guessing Spider-Man would’ve earned at least a five, miss.” was my patented Hook-style retort. Fortunately, her good nature prevailed and she found my Canadian sarcasm amusing.
“You no Spider-Man… You Superman!”
You’re damn right I am.
See you in the lobby, kids…