“You do not know where Eritrea is?” The cab driver chastised me in his thick Eritrean/ese/ish accent.

“No. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of that country.” I yawned. I wasn’t expecting a geography lesson at 4 a.m. in a taxi on the way to the airport after a useless 45-minute nap.

“Look!” My driver jutted his arm into the back seat and waved a printout in front of me. “See? Can you not see it?”

As his accent was inscrutable and since I couldn’t read his facial expression, I went with caution and assumed he was volatile. “No, I can’t. Please stop shaking your paper in my face.” I took the printout. Even as I held it inches from my eyes I still couldn’t see this Eritrea about which he was most vehement. I chalked up my lack of discovery to a lack of interest.

“Oh! Look! There it is!” I lied.

The driver continued to tell me about the population’s wealth, it’s exports, and how it’s an extremely valuable nation. I continued to hold the map up to my face and pretended to be studying it.

Normally I enjoy chatting with my cab driver but this morning was different. I was not looking for a lecture regarding my ignorance about a minuscule East African nation. Especially when it was given as a non sequitur response to my inquiry of his morning.

“Your country sounds beautiful. I will try to get there someday.” I tried to be cordial and polite as I climbed out of the cab.

“Have not you been listening to what I say to you?” The driver hopped out of the cab and, without pause, continued giving me a history lesson in broken English as we stood at the SeaTac airport check-in curb.

“Thank you. I gotta go. My flight leaves soon.” I lied again. We stood next to the opened trunk of his cab looking at each other. I grew uncomfortable. Was I supposed to tip him more than I already had? Were we supposed to shake hands? Did he want a hug? It is clear in my foggy state of mind that I obviously missed something important from our 20-minute conversation. “Can I have my luggage now?” I asked as politely as I could. Apparently that was not the right response because he threw it at my feet, slammed the trunk and stormed off. “Thank you!” I reiterated. He gestured with his hand at me again, almost as if he was implying: Stupid fucking Americans.

I smiled and waved at him. As he drove off, I bent down, picked up my duffel bag, turned toward the glass door, sighed and slowly hobbled toward the awaiting American Airlines check-in counter. It’s amazing how dull conversation on an unimportant topic at a godforsaken hour can take the oomph out of a person – well that and .05 mg of Clonazepam. I find the entire experience of flying to be loathsome and nerve-wracking. I would rather chew on glass than be coherent at any point between checking in and picking up my unmolested luggage at baggage claim.

After entering my confirmation code and my credit card information to the automated Check-in computer, a large, red, bold font asked if I wished to upgrade my seats to first class. I looked around, stunned. Surely this option wasn’t being offered to me, yet I was not in a line and no one was standing behind me. The large, red, bold font informed me the upgrade was only $180. I’ve never flown first class before… I wasn’t planning to buy anything this trip from the vendor market… Partly from curiosity, but mostly from my lack of self-restraint due to sleep deprivation, I said yes.

Do you hear me? Yes!

By gum I told that large, red, bold font YES.

I was amazed by the vast sea of leg room. I was astonished with the seat’s expanse. I was in heaven. To celebrate washed down a Dramamine, an Ambien and another .05 mg of Clonazepam with the proffered complimentary bottle of water from my sincerely hospitable flight attendant.

I woke up from the best flight I have ever experienced just as the plane landed.

While clutching my duffel bag and still semi-unconscious, I stumbled my way toward the taxi stand. Although my head was in a thick fog, I was excited to meet up with my friends, Michael and Leonhard, who had just arrived from München. After hugs, kisses, and many cigarettes, we flagged down a cab and headed to the Hyatt-Regency Hotel in lovely downtown Chicago.

Once there, we checked in and immediately went to our rooms. Being on the 25th floor, our quarters were high above all those little people out there in the dark. Alas! This superior feeling was all but a fleeting moment once I remembered being on the 25th floor was more a liability than a luxury when there are 10,000+ men using the elevators at every hour of the day and night.

After unpacking my bags, I decided to deal with the ugly situation of finances. Since I loathe owing people money, I asked Michael how much my share of the room cost. I pulled out a wad of hundreds and fifties and started counting them out.

“Oh, Ne ne ne!” Michael waved my question aside. As he dug around in his suitcase, Michael continued, “Leonhard and I are claiming this vacation as a business expense. This is a leather event and we are owners of a fetish shop.” He stood up, producing two bottles of vodka from his suitcase. After he placed the bottles on the armoire, he leaned over and began to dig around in the stocked refrigerator. “We will use this opportunity to see new products on the market.” His arm jutted out toward me with a small bottle of cranberry juice. I grabbed the bottle from him as he stood up. “Your money is unnecessary.” Quizzically, Michael looked around, frowned and then grabbed two Styrofoam cups from the armoire. “Drinking alcohol from Styrofoam is a sin… sigh, but I do it anyway.” He grinned as he opened the bottle of vodka. Michael reached his point as he poured two vodka-cran’s, “Besides you save your money for your Christmas holiday in München.”

Like a cat hearing a can of food being opened, as Michael stirred the two vodka-cran’s with his index finger, Leonhard was at the door, knocking for us to open up. Michael welcomed him with a cocktail. Leonhard immediately scrunched up his face and disdainfully examined the Styrofoam cup. “It’s all we could find. Here, drink up.” Michael made light of the situation; Leonhard tsk’ed and then they started their weekend of steady drinking.

I thanked both of them profusely as I folded the cash and put it back in my pocket. Over the years, one thing I learned from spending time with Michael and Leonhard is not to argue, especially when it involves their financial hospitality. “I’m taking you guys out to dinner while we are here!” I assertively stated while jabbing both their shoulders with my index finger.

I suspected this situation would occur. To be safe, I came to Chicago prepared. “I thought of you when I saw these so I just had to buy them.” I handed both Michael and Leonhard a bottle of red wine. “Think of them as hotel-room warming gifts.” The wines may be expensive, however, I felt my offerings were merely tokens of gratitude since Michael and Leonhard just saved me $600.00.

I wanted a nap before heading out, instead the three of us went in search of a convenient store where we could buy necessities – water and chocolate for me, cranberry juice, vodka, and beer for them. After carrying the cases of water, juice and booze back to our room, we headed downstairs to grab a bite to eat. Having not eaten since 7 PM the night before, my self-restraint once again faltered and I found myself eating a greasy slab of cheap fast-food pizza. I was desperate.

As the three of us headed to the cordoned-off smoking area outside for a quick cigarette, we spotted Tobias and his partner Alex arriving in a cab. After wrangling their luggage to their room, once again, we headed to the not-close-enough-to-truly-be convenient store in the chilly, early-evening sunshine for more vodka, cranberry juice, tonic water, gin, and plastic cups. The dearth of glassware was an affront to die deutschen Jungen and they were loath to drink anything from the dreaded Styrofoam cups the hotel left in our rooms. Plastic would simply have to do.

Eventually, the five of us were able to relax. With cranberry juice, vodka and plastic cups in hand, we planted ourselves on comfortable chesterfields in the hotel’s atrium and talked about all the big ol’ gir… oops, I mean leather men as they arrived, luggage in hand, through the front door. It was quite a parade. I can appreciate those who prefer to live the ‘leather lifestyle’, but I don’t. Simply put, the pterodactyl look is as tired as the staff at Colonial Williamsburg.

While the boys leisurely enjoyed their cocktails, I came across a small bowl of salted cashews.

I did not share them.

As their plastic cups were emptied, I sat with my jaw dropped in mock horror as I watched Alex play bartender with the recently acquired booze and mixers for the rest of die deutschen Jungen in our klatch.

Spike and his posse arrived. In true Troublemaker Magazine fashion, they literally toppled from the cab and behaved like sunshine was toxic. Their costumes, and I sincerely mean costumes, were garish, grotesque, and absurd. I mean, really! They must have looked cartoonish, seated for an entire flight in football shoulder pads, feather boas, latex shorts, leather pants, crusty ripped t-shirts, and six-inch high, KISS revival, platform, knee-high boots in coach. If only I could sit in on the therapy sessions the unlucky passengers will unequivocally require after being subjected to this noxious cloud of stale, meth-soaked sweat, nicotine, urine, alcohol, rubber, paint thinner, amyl nitrate, leather, plastic and a soupçon of steroid-altered testosterone that permanently emanated from them. Their style may be fucked up, but at least it is different and new. As we watched them noisily fall up the escalator, the 5th, and sadly, final German showed up. This year Markus travelled alone as he and his partner of 5 years had recently split. I don’t know what happened, but everyone agreed his ex had a brain fart.

Like a Visigoth Horde, we descended upon the Kilkarnie Steakhouse for dinner. I was amused yet shocked when our waiter arrived at the table with a large tray displaying various assorted slabs and cuts of beef. What a brilliant concept! Oh look… blood dripping onto the carpet… I thought to myself while maintaining a Cheshire cat-like grin. At first I was concerned that I would suffer through the meal without anything to eat, but I was pleasantly surprised when I located in the bottom right corner of the last page the one inch of text my menu dedicated to potatoes. While the boys caught up in their native tongue, I happily sat and listened as I consumed vast quantities of starch. Thick wedge cut French fries dipped in mashed potatoes are tasty once one has relegated his culinary standards to the oxymoronic idea of Midwestern cuisine.

While returning to the hotel, the streets were lively and the weather was still pleasant. We walked past the ostentatious yet hideous Trump Tower. We crossed the river, wandered back into the air-conditioned hotel and promptly met up with Jason, a Chicago native and another friend of die deutschen Jungen. He sells Christian Dior handbags and says he owes his livelihood to Sex in the City and Sarah Jessica Parker.

The seven of us headed to Michael’s and my room where more drinks were poured, music was played and conversation peaked and ebbed for about an hour. Eventually we decided to see what had arrived in the hotel’s lobby.

Amidst the throngs of men in various states of undress, we met up with many familiar faces with completely forgettable names. By this time two well-known leather mavens from the west coast had arrived and began holding court. To celebrate our reunion, I broke down and ordered a piece of Chocolate cake. Lucky for me, I finger-fed most of it to two friends of mine, Bill and Jay – but not at the same time. I mean c’mon … I might have germs after all!

At first, the nonsmoking policy was frustrating. Everyone is milling about in the lobby and bar on the second floor of the atrium. Unfortunately, one must head down to the first floor to reach the outside smoking area. This requires taking the escalator up and down all night long. While I find it annoying and a bit tedious, I am slowly learning to appreciate doing this as a way to make my entrance and my exit repeatedly throughout the night. Remember, touch the pearls and then wave with your hand just below your crown, Sweetie!

I know my personal Eve Harrington is supposed to be here, I just haven’t seen him or heard his braying laughter yet. Now that I am here, I want to believe that I am not concerned about bumping into him, however, I know myself: I will make an unnecessarily dramatic ordeal about it because I am used to living a life of agita.

It’s midnight and this carriage has turned into a pumpkin. Good Night.