Obviously, I landed in London in one piece. The flight was all right, but I was seated next to a family of four: Yuppie Breastfeeding Mom, Seemingly Resentful Dad, their kicking toddler Chloe, and the baby, David -- who I referred to mentally as Fang when I thought of his tiny sprouts of teeth. The toddler was a brat, the baby was happy (honestly, he seemed a bit drunk), and mom and dad slept through both children bleating throughout the sleepytime of the flight. Oblivious to the glowering stares from other passengers, the parents snoozed: Mom in her seat, Dad stretched out on the cabin floor. I fear he may have tried to play footsie. When the happy family woke up, Mom decided to clip Chloe's toenails. Horrifying.
Anyway, London is much nicer in September than it is in London [Note: I meant March, but was obviously brain-tired]. Took the tube in and made it to the hotel, where I took a little naparoo. I woke up, unpacked, and then freaked the F out as I heard a key going into my door. It must be the housekeeping service," I thought. But it wasn't. It was a little Englishman stopped only by the chained door (see, Mom, I am traveling safely). "I'm sorry, but this is my room," he said. "Let me put on a shirt," I replied. I looked out at the little old man dwarfed by his rolling suitcase and decided I could easily take him in a fight if necessary, so I opened the door a bit. Before I had a chance to ask him what was going on, he started waving a confirmation slip of paper around. "Room 774!" he barked. "I booked this room in JANUARY!"
Jet-lagged and still groggy from my nap, I took a moment to realize that homeboy meant that he had booked this exact room. He began telling me about his late wife (uh oh) and how today was their anniversary (you know where this is going) and how they'd stayed here forty-eight years ago for their honeymoon and I simply was not part of this plan. "So you see," he was saying, "I have booked this room and there's been a mistake and this just will not do."
At first I felt horror: Is this what they do to the Priceline guests? Make them share rooms? Certainly that couldn't be the case, I thought. I felt sorry for this man, who was becoming more desperate as the story rolled on. I think he thought I was going to fight him for the room, which was not my intention. Finally I interrupted him and said, "I'm sure we can call the operator and straighten this out. I wouldn't want you to miss staying in this room." Well, that changed everything! Suddenly, we were compatriots, allies, a coalition of the willing hotel guests! After a few phone calls, the old man was assigned room 774. Yours truly was apologetically assigned room 212, which turns out to be a suite. With a robe on the bed and two tellies and a separate bath and shower and a nice little room that overlooks noisy Oxford Street. Yay!
Anyway, London is much nicer in September than it is in London [Note: I meant March, but was obviously brain-tired]. Took the tube in and made it to the hotel, where I took a little naparoo. I woke up, unpacked, and then freaked the F out as I heard a key going into my door. It must be the housekeeping service," I thought. But it wasn't. It was a little Englishman stopped only by the chained door (see, Mom, I am traveling safely). "I'm sorry, but this is my room," he said. "Let me put on a shirt," I replied. I looked out at the little old man dwarfed by his rolling suitcase and decided I could easily take him in a fight if necessary, so I opened the door a bit. Before I had a chance to ask him what was going on, he started waving a confirmation slip of paper around. "Room 774!" he barked. "I booked this room in JANUARY!"
Jet-lagged and still groggy from my nap, I took a moment to realize that homeboy meant that he had booked this exact room. He began telling me about his late wife (uh oh) and how today was their anniversary (you know where this is going) and how they'd stayed here forty-eight years ago for their honeymoon and I simply was not part of this plan. "So you see," he was saying, "I have booked this room and there's been a mistake and this just will not do."
At first I felt horror: Is this what they do to the Priceline guests? Make them share rooms? Certainly that couldn't be the case, I thought. I felt sorry for this man, who was becoming more desperate as the story rolled on. I think he thought I was going to fight him for the room, which was not my intention. Finally I interrupted him and said, "I'm sure we can call the operator and straighten this out. I wouldn't want you to miss staying in this room." Well, that changed everything! Suddenly, we were compatriots, allies, a coalition of the willing hotel guests! After a few phone calls, the old man was assigned room 774. Yours truly was apologetically assigned room 212, which turns out to be a suite. With a robe on the bed and two tellies and a separate bath and shower and a nice little room that overlooks noisy Oxford Street. Yay!
Love you. I am obviously a bit chatty and batty, so don't be surprised if you hear from me again. Off to track down something to eat.
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