There's No Place Like Home

     So I had an interesting experience last weekend.

     Went to a regional writer's conference to meet up with some people, get some work critiqued, and have some quiet time to write (that means without cats or dogs between me and my laptop). The workshops were Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, but I drove up on Thursday and booked my room until Monday so I'd have time to work.

     The conference was being held at a historic inn located in a small country town. I chose not to stay in the main hotel since I knew it would be crowded and noisy and instead booked a new little cottage with a queen bed, full kitchen, and small living room. When I called to make the reservation, I asked if I would be able to get room service since I wanted to eat while I worked. I was told yes. The day before I left (Wednesday) the hotel called to confirm my reservation and again I asked about room service and was told it would be available.

     After a two hour drive, I arrived and went to the front desk to check in. As I was signing the forms, I read the small print and was bewildered to find that even though the inn charges extra for the rooms with the kitchens, they flat out tell you that you aren't allowed to use the kitchen. Huh? The form stated that even though the room contains a refrigerator, stove, oven, dishwasher, and microwave, they don't allow cooking and have provided no pans or utensils for use in the rooms. If you want to cook, you must make arrangements through them for a different room. So you lure customers in by offering a full kitchen and even charge them extra for it, and then when they show up, you tell them it's just for show? What's next--"There is also a king size bed in the room, but all sleeping must be done on the floor." "You'll find a toilet in the bathroom, but . . ." well, you get the point.

     I hadn't planned on cooking anyway and had just brought some basics to keep in the fridge--fruit, cheese, milk, etc., so I didn't make a big deal out of it. I moved my stuff into the room and got to work. Around seven p.m., I took a break and decided to order some soup and a salad from room service. I called the number and reached an answering machine. Room service was available until nine, so I was surprised that no one answered. I called the front desk and they said, "Oh, the restaurant is only open on weekends." Seriously? The two times that I asked about room service, they couldn't say, "Yes, we have it available, but only on the weekend," so I would be prepared? Now it's seven-thirty on a Thursday night and I have to drive around a strange town looking for food. I felt like a high school boy whose date rubbed up against him all night only to push him away when he tried for a kiss goodnight. The word "tease" comes to mind.

     The next morning, I took a shower before dressing for the first of my sessions. The owners of the inn had little notecards all around with environmental messages on them. Suspiciously, most of the messages might have helped the environment, but mainly seem to save money and work for the inn. I had to turn the water all the way up for it even to be lukewarm and then within five minutes, it was chilly. You know how important my Herbal Essence is to me, so I wasn't thrilled with rushing through my lather, rinse, repeat. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hair, then starting drying my body with another one. Ouch! These towels must have been recycled bamboo or reconstituted pine nuts or something because they would take the skin off an armadillo. I patted the spots that still had skin and got dressed in my writer's uniform--black dress pants, black books, and a black sweater. Now all I had to do was dry my hair, put on my makeup and I could face my fellow writers. I unwrapped the towel and rubbed my hair with it, then looked in the mirror. It was as though I had rolled on the floor of a cotton factory. I was covered in bits of towel. I'm not talking about your normal everyday lint. I have cats and dogs, so I'm used to pulling fur off myself. No, this was chunks of towel covering most of my sweater. A lamb would have had to explode to get this much fluff on me.

     I changed my sweater, finished getting ready and headed out. The conference part was good. I had fun talking with the other writers and there were some interesting talks. I met an agent who I think would be a good fit for my work and who seems to get me (I know, terrifying thought, right?).

     After my meetings, I stopped by the general store to see if there was anything I could take home for my husband and the daughter who still lives at home. I found a bronze bear that I thought my husband would like. Oh, brother, no price tag on it. I took it up to the cashier and asked for the price. She called to one of the male workers and told him to find another one with a price. He wandered around the store with the bear in his hand, but couldn't find one. He picked up a fairy and with a serious face said, "These weigh about the same, so just charge her $20 since that's the price on the fairy." Talk about time travel. I thought I was going to have to come up with some gold nuggets to throw on the scale to pay.

     I bought the bear and went back to my room to get to work. It was Saturday night, so I decided I would give room service another try and then put my nose to the writing grindstone. The cottage was with a group of buildings that were away from the main inn, but still within walking distance. The front desk had told me that I could park in what is usually the luggage drop-off zone because there wasn't anyone else staying over in those buildings. Since I was so isolated, I was surprised when there was a knock on my door that evening. I opened the door and found a six foot plus state trooper in full uniform. He said he was sorry to interrupt my vacation, but he was investigating a burglary in the building attached to mine from the night before and he wanted to know if I had heard anything. Say what?

     It seems that while I slept in my little cottage, a person or persons had broken into the room next to mine and had taken everything--sheets, pillows, blankets, the TV, the lamps, and yes, even the crappy towels. The trooper wanted to know if I had heard or seen anything suspicious. I told him that I hadn't as my knees shook and my mind tried to wrap itself around the fact that only a cheap hotel room door had stood between me and criminals. If they had thought those towels were worth stealing, how much would they have risked to get their hands on my laptop and other technology? Yikes!

     I gave the trooper my contact info, thanked him, then shut and locked the door. Fifteen minutes later, my bags were in the car and I was pulling out of the parking lot on my way home.

     Peace and quiet in a country setting is overrated. I would much rather be at home trying to type around the dog on my lap, a dog who will bark like his tail is on fire if anyone shows up here looking for crappy towels to steal. Hey, maybe I can leave the ones my sister made dingy on the back porch and the burglar will take them and leave.

     Two birds--one stone.