I feel blessed that, despite my baggy trousers and mid sleeve length shirt, topped off with my beaten up light hikers, the professional staff at The Imperial still let me in. I didn't even need to turn on the crisp British school marm accent. They're used to casually attired foreigners more suited to a trip to Disneyland. As long as I can be trusted not to rip a print of Queen Mary, or the Viceroy and Vicereine of India off the lobby walls, I guess MasterCard will make me an honored guest.
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