I’m being watched. And grateful for it. So grateful. There’s a story, possibly apocryphal, during the Purges, the reign of terror, under Stalin. At the height of the cult of personality, the terror was coupled with an intense cowering before and adulation of the immensity of it all. In particular of the Big Guy. At night couples, families would be walking through Red Square and they would see a lone light burning in the Kremlin. “Look,” they’d say in hushed whispers. “Stalin is working.”

Of course it might not have been adulation at all and instead standard issue Russian black humor.

Regardless. Beneath the heat of that gaze be it real or imagined, partial and human or that of a cool eyed whithering executioner, we’re reminded to get with the program.

It’s so important to get with the program.

Okay. I’m downstairs in the Grand Cafe. I order a dry cap, but the foam is a little too wet and already collapsing, the shots pulled long. I get my box of pastries. Good enough.

Back at the room, I run the bath, I gather up the paper, I organize my coffee and my pastries, and I climb in the water. It’s hot. I mean really hot. I’m sweating. I take a bite of pastry. Okay. I try to read, but its kind of hard. I’m sweating. I think I’m reading about whether we’re entering a recovery or not. I take a sip of coffee.

I wait a few minutes, but my phone doesn’t buzz.

Dang it.

What’s the pleasure in something undeserved? A bath, any pleasure really, must be earned and earned in the right way. Even by the end of today if I’m lucky I’ll have spent the better part of my time writing. But I will not have run 12 miles or heaved a ton and a half of coal or been zapped by a few centigrays of uranium. No heavy lifting (really heavy lifting) whatsoever.

So there you have it: stuck yet at the Monaco, staring at the most lovely of cakes, with no desire (let alone right) to eat it.

So I’m in this hotel. I got some crazy ass free upgrade. Corner room – actually rooms, like 900 sf. and a bathtub that could fit three people. Except that I don’t have three people: just me. And it’s 9:30 am and I feel I need to take advantage of this tub and I have this fantasy (wait, stop, check your thoughts – this isn’t going where you think):

I’m in the deep swimming pool tub. The water is hot and steaming. A dry cappuccino in a porcelain cup rests delicately beside me. A plate of buttery pastries with fruit jam. I’m reading the New York Times, careful not to get the edges wet. My phone buzzes. I pick it up and glance at the message. 4 letters, some number. I purse my lip and ponder for a moment. I carefully text back the word SELL. I return to my paper.

Nice.

Sanraku is cold. Some good cuts of fish but standard presentation. Riyoku presents warm towels, applies fresh wasabi and a broader selection of fish from japan.