Dear Friends,

I am off this weekend for another Malice Domestic conference in Arlington, VA, so I am leaving you with this blog I wrote 2 years ago, after just such a weekend. Enjoy!

WHY I LOVE (and HATE) HOTELS

Having just returned from Malice Domestic, one of THE BEST annual mystery readers/writers conferences, and having spent half a day unpacking the luggage that took half an hour to pack (where did all that stuff come from? Surely not my closet), I’m slowly settling back into life without maids and room service.

I have a long-standing love-hate relationship with hotels. I mean, how cool is it to hop onto an elevator that will carry me to a floor filled with restaurants and cafes  – as opposed to schlupping up the hallway to my kitchen, where I have to actually make something myself? And, please, let’s not even get into the clean-up part. Then there’s the magic that happens when I leave a messy bed behind and come back later to find the pillows plumped, the sheets tucked and the comforter lump-free, not to mention that the hairs on the bathroom floor have disappeared.

Honestly, though, the issue with dirty glasses and sheets not withstanding, hotels have  done bad things to me. The latest incident was last Friday morning, when I decided to indulge myself with a rare treat – breakfast in my room. I’ve never felt so pampered and so sophisticated as when that hotel staffer in his maroon coat whisked a tray into my room and removed the shiny stainless cover — VOILA – to reveal crispy French toast, sliced bananas, ripe berries, maple syrup, hot coffee, and orange juice hiding beneath. I mean, does life get any better than that?

Well, no, actually. It got worse. After stuffing myself with the above delights, polishing off the coffee, and replacing the cover on the empty plate, I remembered that in the movies, people always carried the tray to the hallway and placed it on the floor beside the door. So I did, too. There. Done. No longer my problem.

Which would have been fine except that the door had shut behind me. Quickly and solidly. I was lucky my heel had cleared the sill. Who designed those doors, anyway? Shouldn’t there be a grace period?

With no key card, no ID, no cell phone, no underwear, no shoes, and no make-up, (but my hair was nice) I stuffed down my rising panic, pulled the sash of my robe tighter, and considered my options. (1) I could proceed to the elevator in my thin robe and bare feet and go down to the front desk for help. (Thank goodness I’d polished my toenails the night before, but still, the embarrassment factor would be through the ceiling.) (2) I could knock on neighboring doors and hope to find someone still in residence who would call for help. (3) I could look for a “house phone,” which, sadly, would require a long trip up the hallway, around several corners, possibly passing any number of curious hotel guests who might recognize me and confirm their worst suspicions. (Hey, she is a wacko, but would you look at those toenails!) Or, (4) resort to my fall-back plan: WWAD.

WWAD (What would Abby do?) has seen me through several dicey incidents. For those not familiar with my Flower Shop Mystery series, Abby Knight is my sleuth, a short, feisty, fearless young florist who might not be the sharpest pencil in the cup (she did flunk out of law school) but does excel at extricating herself from tricky circumstances, although not often in a very glamorous manner.

So — WWAD in this situation? How about look for the maid’s cart? Wherever the cart goes, so goes a hotel employee carrying a master key card. Luckily, there was a cart around the corner, with a friendly, forgiving woman cleaning in a room nearby who put an end to my misery. Abby would have been proud.

Kate