Spending the night with your paramour in any city can be daunting. One never knows what booby-traps (and not the good kind) might await once you finally get back to his or her lair. Is she a cat hoarder? Does he inadvertently farm mold on the half-dozen old pizzas in his fridge? Does her bathroom have a resident slug creeping around the faucet? Has he displayed his Little League trophies prominently? Without seeing firsthand, one can never predict the horrors that lie within.
And then there's the most critical dwelling issue of all: does he / she have roommates? (And if so, how many bathrooms are there per capita??)
From the guy who lived with three other people -- and only one bathroom -- in Brooklyn to the musician whose 3,000 square-foot loft was on loan from one of the founding members of the Blue Man Group, I've seen it all. And so it is with confidence that I say that the best situation of all is the guy whose roommates are never around when we are. By stay number three, if I haven't met these other humans who occupy his space, I'm doing a little happy dance:
No one's standing awkwardly in the hallway when I stumble, hungover and frizzy-haired, out of the bathroom at noon after brushing my teeth. No one's steaming vegetables like an adult when we bust in in after happy hour and trip-grope our way into his bedroom. No one's leaving passive-aggressive notes about putting the pint glasses into the dishwasher when we dump them in the sink on our way out the next day.
And to that, friends, I raise a glass myself (while furtively looking around for any stray signs of cat hoarding or Little League trophies).