Dancing lessons from god

Look close: It actually IS the White River Junction location

I am working on a slow as a turtle connection from the White River Junction Hampton Inn.

It’s been an interesting stay here.

So far on two successive nights we have had to go back down to the desk (we are on the third floor) and get them to re-program our keys. The first night the girl behind the counter, in a thick Russian accent, chastised me for keeping the cards in with my cell phone.

“Is to make them work not,” she informed me.

That was a new one on me. Stayed in hotels all my life, always had a cell phone never got told that before. But I dutifully kept the two apart yesterday. And dog tired after family picnic last night the God Damn key didn’t work.

I hate leaving the long-suffering wife in the hallway while I traipse down to the lobby to fix this yet again. I was tired, hot, sweaty, stinky and in no mood.

“Maybe I should just stop by every night before we go to the room to get these to work,” I snarled at the non-Russian girl. She was very, very sorry. Could not understand how this could have happened. Blah, Blah, Blah.

It’s an OK hotel. Big room. Reasonable in the context of a Vt. summer rate. Pretty sweet breakfast deal which featured pre-made omelets (made when?) in perfect little shapes. Very reminiscent of airline food but actually pretty tasty.

Mystery Omelets in red circle.

Question: My toaster at home, far from a industrial commercial grade, makes burned beyond recognition black relics of bread in less than 2 minutes. Eight minutes in a hotel breakfast bar toaster delivers warmed English muffins. Not even warm enough to melt the concrete butter in the little foil pack. Why?

First problem on arrival: No mini fridge in the room. This is a problem for me as I have meds that need cool. Pretty much a deal breaker. I called down to the desk (35 rings – I counted. I am an impatient asshole, sometimes. Most times.) and delivered my thoughts. Oh they could get me one. $10 a night. I made loud, unhappy noises. The fridge became free. Score one for the asshole.

Last night they shoved the bill under the door. It’s too bad I don’t have a scanner. It’s such a complete work of fiction as to rival a Stephen King Novel.

It was made to: Rising, Jim – Bellevue Wa 98004.

I’ve never been to Wa.

The total was for $0. (pre-paid, via Hotels.com) Good, but.

Upon check-in I said “Rising” to the girl behind the desk (non-Russian.) I rarely get asked “First name?” because there are not so many Rising’s in this world. Turns out younger son had made a reservation. So being the Dad I am, I paid it. So now I have to go down and make sure this was done. And that they know where I am from.

My brother calls travel “Dancing lessons from God.”

On to Maine and the Viewpoint for the next four nights. Can’t wait. I’ll post some more about that place in a later entry.

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About James Rising

A recovering radio addict wrestles with the written word.
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