<strong>Irina</strong><br/><br/>This prime example of small-town hospitality is called the White Eagle Inn and Family Lodge.  It's a single storey line of what looks like about a dozen units and the office, which is arranged at one end of the line and juts out to give the whole an 'L' shape.  Walking inside, you find that the office is hot, dismal, the air barely stirred by an anemic ceiling fan.  The general impression is that there is no way this could ever be considered a four-star establishment.  The middle-aged clerk behind the counter seems a donut short of a full box, or maybe one bad day away from going day trader with a full clip.  He needs a shave.  He needs to lose about a hundred pounds.  He needs a clean shirt.  His beady, glazed eyes take a walk all over you, seem to ignore Alex until Alex reaches the counter.<br/><br/>"Got a reservation," Alex says.  "We're checking in."<br/><br/>This brings the man's attention to him, and for just a second you witness the shift on his face from annoyance to loathing and straight past hatred to abject bowel-emptying fear as he seems to recognize the young man.<br/><br/>"You!  You're...you're with..."<br/><br/>"Oh!  You remember my boss?  That's great," Alex says dryly.  "He's always very happy to hear that people remember him," is added in a tone that this is not at all the case.  "So leave the keys and take a hike and we'll see you in time to check out tomorrow.  Got it?"<br/><br/>The clerk is already scrambling around the counter, nodding jerkily.<br/><br/>"Keys are right there!  Just don't let that old man do that thing to me again, please!"  He trips, hits the floor heavily, stares up at Alex like a man trapped on a beach watching the biggest tsunami in history bearing down on him.  Alex just steps carefully out of the man's way.<br/><br/>"No worry about that, I think."<br/><br/>"I'm sorry I stared at your lady friend!"  The man looks at you.  "I'm sorry!  I didn't mean any disrespect!"<br/><br/><br/><strong>Everybody Else</strong><br/><br/>You find the pizza and pasta joint about a mile up the road.  It isn't much to look at, as if it does far more carryout and delivery than dine-in.  The kitchen crew are bored and teenaged and surly, but do their best to act cheerful and enthusiastic when you come in.  At the moment your party is the only custom they have, and you're someone one to gossip about afterwards.  The air is oven-hot and carries the scents of garlic and oregano.<br/><br/>The kid at the counter, as Native American as they come, swallows nervously as he grins, showing braces.  His nametag announces that he is called Doug.<br/><br/>"Welcome to Lotsa Pasta and Thatsa Pizza, folks!  C'n I take your order?"<br/><br/>It isn't quite automatic to him.  Delivery's off a bit.  Maybe he's new?<br/><br/>(Sophronia, did you bring your entourage along?)<br/>