I was reading my new book about the actress in rehab, and I was vaguely wondering why the writer’s name sounded familiar. I couldn’t quite place it, so I flipped to the back to see what her bio said. Suddenly I realized where I knew her from.
“Hey Andrew, guess who wrote this book?” I showed him the front cover.
“No! No way! THE Carrie Fisher?”
Yup. My book was written by Princess Leia. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible, either. Now I’m wondering if I should get another book. We’re flying home tomorrow, but I feel vaguely uncomfortable going even 24 hours without something to read.
Speaking of going home, I mailed all of our dirty clothes home today so that we’ll have almost nothing to carry tomorrow. I asked the front desk, and they told me the nearest post office was in the back of Macy’s. I walked down the Macy’s block and back again. It was a whole block of Macy’s, nothing else. Finally, I asked at a restaurant.
“The post office is inside Macy’s.”
Weird. I went into Macy’s, where there was no sign of a post office. I asked an over-collagened makeup hawker where the post office was. “Oh, in the basement.”
I went down the escalator, wandered around for a bit, and finally gave up and asked another sales lady. “If you follow the red wall, it’s down there.” Oh.
So, to get to the post office, you go into Macy’s, go down to the basement, make a U-turn, and it’s in sort of a back room. I’ve been to speakeasies that were easier to find.
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