The Abe Froman Files

For my work trip I’m staying at The Study at Yale, a hotel chosen for its relatively cheap rate and proximity to downtown New Haven. Its particular boutique hotel gimmick is Ivy League Nostalgia, and it takes great pains to remind visitors of the great times they had just two blocks away and many years ago.

Thanks to all the sleek Swede decor, it really does have the warm feel of a college dorm, but with trickier to use lighting and a $15 half bottle of pinot noir. NO WAY IN HELL would I have paid that much for booze whilst a college lass. And the bathrobes (blue and white seersucker…) have the look and quality feel of a hospital gown.  You know, the nice one (I imagine) one might get if having plastic surgery or delivering triplets.

It’s easy to make fun since I’m not an Eli and the jar of pencils, stacks of books, and drab blues don’t transport me to a different place. It’s just a nice hotel with a couple of quirks. For starters, the shower stall is all glass and faces the wall of mirrors above the sink. This is nice for those who believe they look better naked than clothed; but I’ve seen a lot of Yale grads, mostly from the class of 1980 or older, and I can’t imagine that this is the case for these guys. But who the hell am I to judge. If Goodwin Albertson Sears IV likes to watch himself soap his ass, well, then then this is his place. Perhaps that’s part of the nostalgia appeal of The Study at Yale. How the hell would I know? I didn’t go here.

While the shower is huge, there is no tub. I couldn’t give a fuck, since I think that baths are hot, sweaty, and boring. But for many of my friends, this would be sacrilege. Even if he doesn’t intend to soak, he gets nervous when the option isn’t there. I suppose it’s something like the anxiety I feel when I’m in a home that doesn’t have 147 rolls of toilet paper crammed into all the spare spaces in the house.

TS@Y also has jars of cookies in the lobby. They’re dry and unexciting, but free and abundant. Just like the food that was probably served at Yale. It’s late and I’m hungry and not feeling like walking very much, and I predict that these are going to be my dinner. And just like in college, I’ll fall asleep with a dry mouth, crumbs stuck to my face, and a stomach bloated with carbs.