New York

      I had been looking forward to visiting my sister in New York for several months. Now that I finally had arrived, I was excited to have the chance to play "the tourist" and take in all of the excitement of the Big Apple. First on the agenda was the Broadway show "Chicago."
      As we entered the theater, I was a little nervous. "Are you sure there isn't a dress code?" I asked my sister. Wearing a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, I was concerned I would be severely underdressed.
      Carrie, without looking up from her phone, replied flatly, "Yes. The website said proper dress is 'tourist' except on opening night." She handed our tickets to the usher.
      As we found our seats, I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed several others wearing jeans and t-shirts. I fit right in. We squeezed through the narrow row, brushing past several folded seats, until I saw the bass placard that read 16. I folded down the seat and sat.
      I continued sinking into the seat, until bottoming out on the rigid springs under the cushion. As I continued readjusting, trying to find a more comfortable position, the seat squeaked and groaned loudly. Carrie leaned over. "Hey, I don't think you need to worry about what you're wearing."
      "Why's that?" I asked, causing my seat to again creak.
      "Look." She motioned to the people sitting next to me, wearing t-shirts, shorts, and flipflops, crunching on a bag of potato chips. Broadway sure is a classy place.