Luxor Hotel, Las Vegas, NV (Wed, Sept 6, 2006)

I can always spot a German couple in America. Maybe that’s not politically correct or whatever, but I can. Part of it is the way they dress, of course. Who the hell told German men it’s always a good idea to tuck in their shirts?

A stout blonde man downstairs in the elevator lobby wore baggy grey exercise shorts, and his yellow muscle shirt was tucked into them. Dead giveaway.

This isn’t how I noticed the foreign couple, though; I actually spotted her first. She was holding her head as if to say she’d had enough. No sex tonight, honey; I’ve got a real splitter. Her face looked disturbingly deformed—in fact my early diagnosis was that she suffered from Down’s Syndrome, although I threw that out quickly because she was so thin. Then it came to me: She’s German, (or Austrian–what’s the difference, really?).

Yes, it could be! That chiseled cranial structure, the look on her face, as if she was trying to hide in the cloud of confusion that had descended upon her as the lobby crowded with old people trying to get upstairs to their rooms for an afternoon nap. I knew for sure she was different, and that’s when I saw her partner, Mr. Tuck. As they exchanged a few quick words my hunch was confirmed. German.

“Servus!” I said. I couldn’t help myself.

Mr. Tuck looked surprised, then awkwardly amused.

“Servus,” he said, politely.

That was all the German I was prepared to exchange with him. Before I could sense the anxiety of the situation, an interruption came from around the corner. A young, fat American woman walked toward us, loudly addressing what was apparently her husband or boyfriend.

“Why did you roll your eyes at me when I said I didn’t want to go to the pool?” she asked, about twenty decibels louder than necessary.

“I didn’t,” he replied quickly and much more softly. He was bigger than her physically, but something told me he knew what kind of a scene she was capable of creating, and he was backing down post-haste to avoid embarrassment in the now full lobby.

“I just don’t think it’s a very smart idea, that’s all,” she said, still nearly shouting. “I’m already red, and you are, too.” Now she was just plain condescending.

The fifteen or so people waiting for the elevator had gone silent. Awkward moment. He glanced into our faces as if to assure us this would not get out of hand. After looking at each of us very briefly, he stared hard into one of the reflective elevator doors.

It was a cold, hard stare, the kind you reserve for when you’re trying not to cry.

“Maybe you can go tomorrow,” she said. A bell sounded, announcing that one of the elevators had finally arrived. She nudged him through the door into the elevator. “We’ll see,” she said, and then the door closed.