W
E were in New York, staying in a gorgeous hotel opposite Central Park. Everything was pure luxury with marble hallways, enormous arrangements of cut flowers, gloved elevator attendants and concierges in three-piece suits with flowered buttonholes.
We were about to be driven downtown in the courtesy car to a rather swanky restaurant on our last night.
There seemed to be a frisson of excitement buzzing through the lobby. The doormen whisked open the doors with additional flair and clipped bows; serious-looking men and women with curly wires coming out of their ears whispered urgently into their cuffs.
People stood in throngs busily texting on their phones, their camera apps ready.
“What’s happening?” we asked. The elevator concierge whispered excitedly, “Mr Trump is in the hotel.”
Not wishing to be wrestled to the ground for a sideways Mexican look, we beat a hasty retreat out of the other exit, wondering if we would have to fight off hordes of photographers.
The Pitt-Jolie split had also just been announced so the press were ever eager for whatever scoop they could elicit.
But it was just us, so there was no interest as the hotel car collected us — amongst the limousines and securitydetail vehicles with blacked-out windows lining the side entrance — to take us to our dinner engagement.
The rush-hour traffic in Manhattan is the same as it is in Johannesburg — in fact, the world over. Drivers never engage second gear and the intersections are blocked.