SHORTLY after nine, as I was walking past the rows of house phones toward the front desk, two determined-looking women came barreling around the corner, bearing down on me. Uncommitted to any appointments, I decided to follow them. They were on the far side of middle age, with the requisite short, puffed hairdos, and had inexpensive cameras dangling around their necks.
“Okay, let’s start here, Selma,” one of the women said to her companion. They had pulled up before the Palm Court. Selma struck a pose there, one hand on her hip, one hand arched behind her head, while her companion got positioned to take her picture.
Her companion made a disgusted face. “No, no,” she said. “I don’t like that pose. It makes you look too cheap.”
Selma removed ...