The Tourists

There is a hotel around the corner from us that has a cool roof top bar that looks out over the city.

We have been promising Baby Boy we would take him on an elevator ride to the top "to see the mountains" (since the sun sets at at 4:30 and the bar doesn't open until 5, seeing the mountains translates loosely into "watching mommy and daddy drink very dry martinis). Last night was his special date with 14 vertical floors up.

After the utter disappointment with the lack of mountain views and too-much-vermouth martinis, we decided to grab a cab across town for dinner. Noticing us waiting, and mistaking us for guests, the concierge called the complementary hotel town car.

Playing the part of grateful tourists, we queried the driver (in thick southern accents) on how business was this time of year, asked about local hot spots and commented on how much brick there is in the city. We told him all about Atlanta (a city we have never been to), the snakes in our pool and the humidity.

The car was at a red light when Baby Boy loudly pointed out that we were stopped right next to our house.

Getting busted for scamming free rides in the hotel car? I wish I could say it was priceless, but it cost a humiliated $20.