The conversation at the elegant French restaurant where we are dining is slowly but surely being drowned out by the increasing noise from the adjoining table. Seated nearby is a harangue of rather obnoxious conventioneers, ten middle-aged tubbos who seem to have been teleported here straight from a Wednesday night bowling league dinner dance somewhere in Iowa. Each is nattily attired in pastel-colored leisure suits, with floral print shirts that proclaim 'Hi, I'm a tourist' as the collars swell out over the jacket lapels. They keep looking around in anticipation , as if some black-laced chambermaid is about to spring out of a giant crepe at any moment.