Out of the Madhouse by Christopher Golden

He felt a bit guilty for having abandoned Buffy, even for a week, but she had nearly forced him to go, even instructed him on what to pack. The seminar had, thus far, been a relaxing escape from Sunnydale and from the pressures of his role as the Watcher. It was true, he'd discovered (or at least, hypothesized), that one could find literally anything in this city, if one knew where to look. Indeed, in spite of his misgivings, Giles had managed to enjoy himself for the past few days, both with the other librarians he'd met and exploring New York alone. He had stayed at the Warwick on one of his first visits to the United States, and recalled with pleasure an enormous mural of Queen Elizabeth knighting Sir Francis Drake in the downstairs dining room. The other primary reason that Giles agreed to attend this function - 'Libraries 2000,' sponsored by the American Library Association, among others - was the fact that many of the events were to be held in the Warwick Hotel, a grand old dame of a building whose granite and gargoyles looked down on 57th Street with all the haughtiness of Britain's proudest structures. And that meager interest had died and been buried along with her. His only previous interest in computers had been generated by Jenny Calendar, the woman he'd loved. And much of that information, however incomplete, however orphaned from any pedigree, was drawn from computers these days. It was all about information now, he thought sadly. In some ways, books weren't even the answer. It seemed the Dewey decimal system just wasn't good enough for some people anymore.

Not the least of which was pressure from his employer, the principal of Sunnydale High School, to at least make an effort to become better versed in modern library science. In truth, great forces had conspired to bring him to Manhattan in late winter. But there was a certain comfort to the West Coast's laissez-faire attitude that he had begun to enjoy.and which, despite the bacchanalia surrounding him, the East Coast distinctly lacked.

Certainly he missed Buffy and the other students with whom he spent so much time. Surprised as he was by it, he was forced to admit, at least to himself, that he missed Southern California. Come to think of it, there were plenty of boors in London. This might be New York City, the capital city of rudeness, but that did not mean Giles had to behave in a boorish manner. A watered-down gin and tonic in hand, Rupert Giles stood in the far corner of the room and took it all in, careful not to show his disdain. Bodies gyrated, music pounded through pitiful speakers, drinks were poured, imbibed, or spilled in mass quantities.

Out of the Madhouse by Christopher Golden