＃６９

The HJ Grand Hotel is very large and very grand and slightly empty, or, empty, relative to the way that world wonders often extend for miles of both the landmark itself and its attached parking and yet still overflow, while the HJ.G.H—the fake pillared, relentlessly gold trimmed, six floors of buffet hell HJ.G.H—is merely smattered with, as the manager will determine on the 5th, a curiously exact break-even ratio of guests.

The dregs of CZ331 Roma-Guangzhao step from the courtesy shuttle; all three have been red-gold stickered over the breast like schoolchildren. "HJ Grand", above the lobby doors, blares in a rounded, fat Helvetica that is somehow carnal and undoes all the work of the delicate PUSH, PULL serif embossings on the doors. Deep-fried food, somewhere, aerosolises itself over just-mopped marble tiles.

Liminal spaces invariably possess a tremendous tact for foreshadowing, mise en scene... an almost culinary presentation of negative space. HJ.G.H darts your eyes around for you, tag-team hide and seek partners searching out its occupants, finding few and settling on the Grand's remaining oddities instead. Yellowing hand-placed Watch Your Step signs on the inside of the elevator doors, the stencil-cut outline of those thin lace dinner mats of old. A furry emergency exit, red and grey (not gold?), perhaps literally carpeted. A cluster of vertical 2-inch pipes, tucked in tight, over which someone has spray painted utterly unreadable signage. The kind of architectural gluttony only found in large projects built either too hastily or slowly; compromises, swapouts, gimmicks signed-off on by some PM whose idea of aesthetic foresight is color-coding Gantt charts.

Breakfast ends 10:30. Easily a dozen staff, variously in the red velvet vests of the lobbyboys or plain white-black formal for the waiters (the latter pragmatically wainscotted in joggers), aimless around the buffet. Each with their own half-arc orbit, meandering, now and then kicking their lead foot out in front a bit as though preparing to turn, or to plant their foot and reverse entirely, which yes they will sometimes do, but never necessarily. The walk-of-the-bored, hands-behind-back-of-the-bored, squaring ever squarer napkin stacks and interrogating warm plates held in this pool-bottom-tiled alcove of the cutlery section.

This bored has flavour, at least. All the diners are the same, transient airline folk gutted for sleep and solid food, but working the HJ.G.H. off-season is no overstaffed retail gig. The HJ.G.H is an institution. Or, it was meant to be—meant to be, to the young men and women abandoned by the Portuguese tart, by the watermelon feta salad, having sipped from luxury themselves the first time they donned the HJ.G.H vest. Build it, the pencil-pushers thought, built it and they will come, or they are already coming and so we'd better build it quick. But the demand never came, never was, never will be, and the HJ Grand with its thousand rooms and Budapest presumptions now but choreographs those kids, round and round the serving trays, idly warping themselves over silverware as expectation gives way to acceptance. This job, this life, doesn't have for them what they'd once dreamed so giddily. A teacup smacks, shatters, and everyone gives thanks: a communion of the listless.