i enjoy staying in hotels. It’s a feeling that I can be anyone I want to be because nobody knows me here and nobody will ever see me again; or, if they do, they won’t remember me because let’s face it, how many hundreds of faces must pass by their desk every week? I could be a mysterious woman of intrigue, a famous novelist, an employee of the hotel’s corporate office, or a suburban housewife from New Jersey. totally unbelievable, I know.
The hotel I’m in now has a pretty fancy desk (perfect for a famous novelist), one of those desk chairs that looks like it’s made from beach chair webbing but is remarkably sturdy and supportive, a bathroom that is bigger than my first kitchen, and a flat screen television that is bigger than my first kitchen.
I always hold out hope for the continental breakfast because I really only want a cup of very hot tea and perhaps a muffin that has some semblance of healthy. Alas, this hotel really doesn’t know the definition of hot water for tea, and there are no muffins. There are wholesale club croissants and bagels that look like cheerios on steroids. There was a group of people eating this food as if their lives depended on it and even ventured up for seconds. “Well, Earl, the first serving didn’t kill us so let’s try again!”
This, my friends, is usually why I show up places with my own cup of tea from Dunkin’ Donuts. I get the giant size so I can nurse it throughout the morning or until I get someplace else that has decent tea. It really makes life much happier for all concerned parties.
And now, I’m going to sleep in the bed that’s bigger than my first kitchen and dream about roses. Hey! I fit the picture in! Go me.