TRUTH BE TOLD, I’M MORE OF A RED ROOF INN/BEST WESTERN/MOTEL 6 KIND OF guy. I would’ve been more comfortable at any of those places. I’m fond of the noisy ice makers at the end of every hall, the Gideon Bible in every room, the cheap polyester bedspreads, the floral shower curtains, and the little rectangles of dry-out-your-skin soap. But that afternoon what I missed most were the large neon signs.

I worried I’d written down the address wrong because I’d been up and down Greenwich Street three times. Was this some sort of joke? I asked a handful of people if they knew of the hotel in question, and no one had even heard of it.

It didn’t help that I’d overpacked, stuffing my bag with every conceivable clothing combination. If it rained. If it suddenly got cold. Casual pajamas, flannel pajamas. Something about the overwroughtness of my bag gave the impression that I was a man who was never coming back. The more I carried it, the heavier it became. I was tempted to start emptying much of it out onto the street when I saw the two gray industrial doors with thick half-moon handles. On the handle, faintly embossed, the following was spelled out from top to bottom:

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Apparently, I’d asked the four people in the Village who hadn’t heard of the Infinity. Inside, it was designed to speak to the ultra-hip, the übercool. The lobby was a long craterlike structure, gray with stuccoed walls. It felt lunar. Brightly colored lamp shades. Mammoth mirrors hung from thick ropes. This was a moonwalk for the earthbound. I imagined at night the place hopped with the young and chic, decked out in black, sitting around the glass-topped moon-rock tables as they talked and drank and bantered about art and movies and the newest in high fashion.

I knew I was out of my league. But I didn’t care! And I was early. But I didn’t care! I approached the concierge, named Mahogany, a frothy British girl with a stud in her tongue. “Yes?” she said.

“I’d like to check in.”

She was harried, or else unimpressed, because she snapped, “Sir, your room isn’t ready.”

“Well, could you check?”

“I know your room isn’t ready because none of the rooms are ready. You’re very early. Check-in isn’t until three.”

What? Check-in at three?

“Well,” I said, “it’s nearly two.”

One thirteen, to be exact, according to the clock sculpted into the lobby’s back wall.

“And it would be a terrific help . . .”

You see, I’m meeting Anna Brody at six.

Mahogany pecked hard at the keyboard, searching for a room. “Do you have a reservation?”

“I do. Would you like to know my name?”

“Just a minute, sir.” She sssssssss’d the sir with such derision.