Dearest Lobby Lurking,

It's me, Glen. We need to talk about our relationship, sweetheart. For twenty years now, you've been my most consistent companion—more reliable than my hair products, more persistent than my mother's questions about settling down.

Let me set the scene for the uninitiated: It's 11:30 PM on a Tuesday. I've just landed in a new city after a day of meetings. I should go up to my room, unpack my precisely rolled shirts, and get some sleep. But no. That's when you whisper in my ear, "Just one drink in the lobby bar. You never know who you might meet."

And oh, how right you've been! The hotel lobby bar—that magical ecosystem where attractive businessmen loosen their ties and where I, like a documentary host observing exotic wildlife, perch on a barstool with a dirty martini, three blue cheese stuffed olives (always three), scanning for that perfect specimen of mankind pretending to read The Economist but actually hoping someone interesting will sit next to them.

Is it toxic that I've developed a ranking system for hotel lobby bars based on "potential"? The Four Seasons (silver foxes with divorce settlements), the W Hotels (tech bros with something to prove), boutique hotels (creative directors who want to tell you about their screenplay). I know them all, darling. I've mapped this territory like Lewis and Clark, if they were looking for cocktails and temporary companionship instead of the Pacific.

"I'm just being sociable," I tell myself, as I slide onto the barstool next to Mr. Chicago in Town for Finance Conference. "How's your Manhattan? I'm Glen, by the way."

The truth is, Lobby Lurking, you're my most reliable thrill. That moment when I walk into a new hotel, spot the bar, and think, "Tonight could be interesting." It's like I'm hosting my own private show where anyone could be a guest star, and I get to decide who makes it past the first commercial break.

My friends have staged interventions. "Glen, just use the apps like a normal person," they say. But where's the spontaneity in that? The apps don't capture the delicious tension of making eye contact across a marble countertop, the strategic placement of your room key as an invitation. They don't have the soundtrack of ice clinking in whiskey glasses or the soft murmur of strangers becoming less strange.

Should I be embarrassed that the bartenders at The Peninsula in Beijing know my preferred gin? That I can tell you which hotel in Los Angeles has the best lighting for making even the most jet-lagged traveler look mysterious instead of exhausted? That I've developed a sixth sense for distinguishing between a wedding ring tan line and just a watch tan line?

Maybe. Probably. Yes.

But here's my confession, Lobby Lurking: I'm not ready to break up with you. In a world of algorithms and swipe rights, you're my last bastion of unscripted adventure. You're my toxic trait wrapped in 800-thread-count excitement. You're the reason I've heard life stories from a senator's speechwriter, a celebrity chef, and once, memorably, a professional dog photographer to the stars.

So here's to you, my toxic trait. May you continue to lead me astray in the most glamorous possible way. May you continue to convince me that sleep is overrated and connections—however brief—are what make life interesting.

I promise to give you up someday. Just not tonight. Because tonight, I just checked into the Mandarin Oriental, and the lobby bar is calling our name.

XOXO,

Glen

P.S. If you're a single man reading this in a hotel lobby anywhere in America, look up. That guy smiling at you with the expertly mixed martini? Yeah, that might be me. Come say hi. What happens in the lobby doesn't have to stay there.