All Things Considered, We Should Have Stayed at Motel 6

Last Friday, we went to New York City. Just a quick trip up on Friday afternoon to attend an event on Friday night, and back on Saturday morning. Not quick enough as it turned out.

Despite the rain and traffic , we got there with enough time to spare so that Tim could work up a good aggravation before dinner.

First of all, when we asked if the room had a refrigerator, they apparently thought we asked if the room was a refrigerator. Now I'm all for air-conditioning when it's ninety degrees outside, but when it's sixty? Call me crazy, but somehow, I think that you should at least consider switching over to heat, or at the very least turning the air off. A good rule of thumb would be: if the guests' fingers and toes are turning blue and they are calling room service to request parkas and hot water bottles, the room is probably TOO COLD!!!!!

Thinking this was a problem easily solved, we chipped our way through the block of ice encasing the control panel, and bumped it up to ninety...and the air just blew colder. Great, now we could become honorary members of the polar bear club. Finding the blower control, we explored those options as well while we still had some feeling in our limbs and at least a smidgen of fine motor skills left...and, impossibly, the air blew even colder!!! On the bright side though, by morning, we would be cryogenically preserved, and for just a fraction of the price Walt Disney paid.

Before frostbite could set in, we just shut the system down altogether, and ordered flannel PJs, thermal sheets and blankets, a book of matches, some graham crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows (why be cold and miserable? When life hands you a frozen lemon...make s'mores!).

Anxious to be warm again, or at least not colder than a block of ice, I went into the bathroom to change, so we could go downstairs to the event. Through the door, I could hear Tim muttering to himself, which is not usually a good sign. Sure enough, when I came out, he was squinting morosely at his computer.

"Bad news?" I enquired, then wanted to kick myself for opening that can of worms.

"The internet service isn't working, so I can't get online," he groused, "and, the light on the desk isn't working either, so I can't see a darn thing." (Okay, so he didn't actually say darn, but it was close, although there may have been one or two other four-letter words and colorful adjectives in there as well. I'm not sure because I was too busy trying to lock the room safe which kept beeping at me.

He interrupted his tirade when it became clear that something took precedence in my universe over him being able to get online.

"What are you trying to do?" he interrupted himself.

"Nothing. I can't get the safe to lock," I pressed the series of buttons once again as though it would make a difference, and got computerized groans and an error message in response.

"You're hopeless with mechanical things," he informed me with an air of superiority as he brushed me aside, "I'll do it."

Oh yeah, and you're so good at getting things to work. How's the whole online thing working out for you? Would you care for a flashlight to see it? I thought it, but I didn't say it.

"All you have to do is punch in four digits and hit 'lock'" he instructed me loftily.

Gee, now why didn't I think of that? I guess because I've never traveled before and seen one of those new-fangled contraptions. Go-ool-ly. Is that what they call tech-no-lo-gy? Too bad I can't read either, or I might have seen the directions printed right on the front. By the way, you manage to get the heat working?

Beep...beep...beep...beep. Rattle, rattle. Boop boo. Error.

I just smiled smugly.

"Clearly, it's broken," he defended his computer expertise.

No. Really? I guess that's just one more thing to add the the (growing) list then.

Not in the best of moods, we somehow made it through the rest of the evening and into the next morning without further incident. They did come and fix the safe, but not the internet or lamp, and although the heat never came on, at least we had stopped the cold air from actually blowing, so we considered it a victory to get one and a half out of four. Woo hoo!

I took the first shower in the morning, and while Tim tried to defrost himself with the hot water, I finished packing up. I heard the shower shut off, and then Tim laughing, which is not his usual reaction to being clean.

Almost afraid of the answer, I called out, "What?"

Choking back more laughter (which frankly had a slightly maniacal edge to it), he told me that it was a good thing that I had taken the first shower.

"Why?"

He opened the door to show me the knob to the hot water cradled in his hand.

"It just fell right off" he explained, shaking his head.

Before anything else could go wrong, we finished packing up and got out of disaster central.

"Did you have a good stay?" the guy at the reception desk asked Tim as we checked out.

"Yeah, Fine," realizing it was not this guy's fault, Tim decided to forgo the litany of complaints associated with our stay.

"Good," the clerk enthused.

Tim rolled his eyes and bit his tongue.

"Glad you had a great experience with us."

That was it. The magic word. The duck dropped. Tim couldn't keep it bottled up inside for another second.

"Great?" he fired back at the bewildered man who looked like he had pulled the tail of what he thought was a kitten only to realize too late that it was a lion. "Great? Yeah, it was great when the internet didn't work and there was no light in the room. And it was really great when the safe didn't work. It was super great that our room was so cold you could hang meat in it. But the greatest thing of all was when the hot water handle fell off in the shower this morning. I tried to be nice, but you just couldn't let it go. You couldn't accept 'fine'. No, you had to push it with 'great'!"

I don't think I've ever seen anybodies eyes grow that large that fast before. I'm guessing it was at that point that the man erased the word great from his vocabulary. I imagine him now enquiring of departing guests, "How was your stay? Adequate?"

Do Not Disturb

Tim and I decided we needed to escape the crowds and craziness that is the fourth of July in the nations capital, so we hopped a train and headed for the quite solitude...of New York City!

We arrived Friday afternoon, and after a quick bite and a leisurely stroll around (of course, leisurely in NYC means you do a four minute mile or risk getting mowed down and left for road kill on Fifth Avenue), we went back to the hotel to freshen up before dinner.

Wanting to ensure privacy (we learned our lesson in Paris) we hung out the "Do Not Disturb" sign, then locked and chained the only door into the room (we also thought briefly about hiring a bouncer, but decided to keep that option in reserve for the time being).

After a quick shower and change of clothes, I slipped the sign off the door and we started to head out. Halfway out the door though, Tim realized he had forgotten something, so we popped back to get it.

No sooner had the door shut, then there was a knock. "Housekeeping"

Wow. That was fast. What, were they staking out the room, just waiting for the sign to disappear before they jumped in there? Now that is one dedicated staff (or people with too much time on their hands).

"Five minutes," I requested, as Tim and I shuddered in remembrance of our last weekend trip. Maybe a bouncer wasn't such a bad idea after all. Later that night though, when we returned to the room, we decided to risk it and just go with the sign and the double-locked door again. We're crazy like that.

The next morning, still wallowing in the unaccustomed privacy of our room, I turned on the shower and..no water. I turned if off and tried again. Still no water. I felt the panic rising, clawing its way up to the surface. This was not good.

As those close to me know, a shower is near and dear to my heart. Compared to me being denied my morning shower, Anthony Perkins in Psycho looked like a kindly, lovable hotelier mere offering to help Janet Leigh get at that hard to reach spot on her back.

I shouted for Tim, who rushed in hoping to avoid the meltdown he knew from experience was barely being held in check. Like a knight in shining armour (or a man grasping at the last straw), he battled the recalcitrant shower handle. He turned, he twisted, he even shouted and cussed, but the shower stubbornly refused to yield. Finally, he had to admit defeat and call the front desk.

In anticipation of the maintenance guy they promised to send up, I removed the "Do Not Disturb" sign from the door. No sooner had I closed it, then there was a knock. My heart beat faster with pure, unadulterated joy at the speed with which the maintenance guy had responded to our plea for help. With the sign still dangling from my fingers, I pulled open the door.

"Housekeeping," the woman standing there chirped.

Seriously? Did these people camp out in the room next door, just waiting for us to leave? I've seen cats pounce on mice with less speed and determination than the housekeeping staff at that hotel.

"Can you come back later?" I asked, "Our shower is broken, and they are sending someone up to fix it." Why I felt compelled to explain the situation to this woman, I don't know. It isn't like she cared why we were still in the room, she just knew she was going to have to keep our room under surveillance a while longer.

No sooner had I closed the door on her then there was another knock. This time, behind door number one: the maintenance guy! Who suspiciously had only a screw driver. Did he not know he was here on the most important job of his career? Had it not been impressed upon him how vital this shower was? He should have shown up with the Craftsman deluxe tool cabinet, and all he brought was a screwdriver?

But, it seemed he was a miracle worker after all, and after five minutes in the bathroom, I heard the glorious sound of running water. All was right with my world again, and nobody was going to have to die.

I ushered him out the door with many thanks, then once again hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, and headed into the bathroom where I gleefully turned the shower handle. And no water came out.

The vein in my left temple started to throb. Was this some sort of cruel joke? Did they want me to go all Godzilla on them and raze their hotel? Because I could do it.

Once again, Tim rushed in in response to my distress call and monkeyed around with the handle. And once again, I found myself removing the "Do Not Disturb" sign from the door while he called the front desk and suggested that they send the maintenance guy back up to actually fix the problem this time.

Within minutes, there was a knock on the door. I steeled myself to answer the door calmly, but if it was the housekeeping staff again, I couldn't be responsible for my actions. Thankfully , for them, it was the maintenance guy.

Before I could even open my mouth, he produced two faucet parts explaining how he was sure one or the other of them would fix the problem. So, if he knew he hadn't really fixed the problem the first time, why had he said he did and left? I resisted the urge to flush him and his parts down the toilet.

In short order, he was back out in the room though, admitting that it was a third part he needed, which he didn't have, so he would have to go get it. Okay, that was it, now his death was going to be slow and painful.

Tim held me back while he escaped to get the part. But before he returned, there was to be one final visit from housekeeping, because they hadn't pushed me far enough yet. What was it with those people? Were we the only guests in the hotel, or did we just look exceptionally sloppy? I believe Tim handled that one, since he didn't trust me to be around people at that point.

The third time proved to be the charm, and I did get my shower, but not before I put out the "Do Not Disturb" sign one last time...and double locked the door...and made Tim stand guard.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

I have always considered my bungee-jumping, motorcycle-riding sister to be the risk-taker of the family, but last Friday, I did something I'm betting even she wouldn't even do. I rode in a pedi-cab in NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.

In my defense, it was NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.

My friend and I tried to get a regular cab. Really. We frantically waved, we jumped up and down, we planted ourselves in the path of oncoming traffic, we practically did semaphore with our bags, but all the cabs were taken.

As we scurried along the crowded streets, wondering whether we could make it the twenty-five blocks to the station before we either drowned or missed the train, we heard it. The ding ding of a bicycle bell.

"Where to?" the driver (?) called. Clearly, we looked like tourists. Dumb tourists.

Politely declining (which confirmed his whole tourist theory), we moved up the street and renewed our efforts (along with about two dozen other soggy people) to catch a real cab.

Ding ding. "I'll give you a good rate." Yeah, right, on what, the funeral costs when we end up as roadkill?

Again, we declined, less politely this time, and began madly waving our arms like some large, flightless birds recently escaped from the zoo in order to secure a cab that was larger than a Cracker-Jack box.

Ding ding. Apparently, our disparaging remarks with regard to the safety factor of a large tricycle competing with actual rush hour traffic failed to deter this guy. "Anywhere in Manhattan, faster than a regular cab and just as safe."

Hmm. Why not just say "as safe as a swim in shark infested waters", or "as safe as juggling chainsaws that are on fire". Yeah, he might want to rethink that as a possible slogan.

Brushing him off once again, we slogged through another block teeming with rain and cranky pedestrians, but no cab was to be had.

Ding ding. And that is when is struck. Temporary insanity. We looked at each other, said a quick prayer to the patron saint of idiots and squeezed into the "cab".

After zipping the plastic cover, sealing us in like leftovers in a Ziploc baggie, our driver hopped on his bike and took off down Fifth Avenue. Before we could even register the lack of seat belts, protective headgear or roll bars, the nice "safe" ride became the Tour de France and our driver Lance Armstrong.

We hurtled down the street zigging and zagging through traffic, narrowly missing cars, buses, construction barrels, concrete barriers and a few stray pigeons. Pedestrians dove for safety, horns blew, brakes squealed, and we learned some wonderful new phrases that are sure to make us a lot of friends in several different languages.

We flew like the wind, hitting every pothole, rut and sewer lid until we felt like a couple of pieces of Shake'n Bake chicken. Finally though, the end was in sight...Penn Station. But wait, we weren't slowing down. We were still doing Mach 10 in a Mach 3 zone and three lanes over from the curb. As we tried to attract our "driver's" attention by clawing at the plastic (apparently, he had grown immune to our screams about fifteen blocks back), he suddenly swerved one final time, cutting off a cab, a limo and a bus and propelling us up and over the curb to come to a bone-jarring halt three feet from the door. (well, that explained the speed. It's hard to get airborne doing anything less than sixty mph I guess.)

As he unzipped us with a grand flourish and boasted, "Ten minutes!", we pried our fingers from around the sides of the "cab" and practically fell to our knees and kissed the pavement in sheer gratitude at still being alive.

I think I'll leave the daredevil stuff to my sister from now on.

Warning! Never Offend the Gods of Travel

Last Thursday, my friend and I made our bi-annual pilgrimage to NYC by train, and in the process, somehow offended the gods of travel.

Oh, things started out well enough. We got to the station early enough to have breakfast, we got two seats together that were not in the quiet car (which was a lucky break for everyone in the quiet car), and we arrived in Midtown with just enough time to have lunch before our 1:00 appointment (clearly, we live in great fear of missing a meal).

I should have known our luck was too good to be true. Maybe we weren't appreciative enough, or maybe we just took it all for granted. Either way, we were about to pay for it.

Going directly to our "usual" Italian restaurant, we discovered that it didn't open until 11:30. Hmmm. This was new. Oh well, no problem. We would just take a little walk around, do some window shopping and and still have time to stuff ourselves before 1:00.

Unfortunately, we soon found out that they considered that 11:30 time more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule. At 11:35, the door was still locked, and the waiters were all sitting at the tables folding napkins. At 11:40, they were unpacking bottles of wine from crates littering the main aisle. Meanwhile, we stood outside, tapping our toes, pointing to our watches and glaring at them through the glass windows, all to no effect. At 11:45, we gave up our intimidation tactics and decided to explore our other options.

Since this was a mostly high end shopping area (ever see Dolce and Gabbana haute couture on someone over one hundred pounds?) there weren't a lot of them. A few doors down, there was the Four Seasons (anyone for a thirty-eight dollar hamburger?), and next to that a sushi place (fifty dollars for a plate of raw fish?). On the other hand, we could go to the take-out place (Yummy. Pre-packaged sandwiches fresh from yesterday!), or how about some chestnuts and hot dogs from the cart on the corner (yes, but what would we tell them at the ER when they wanted to know exactly what had caused the food poisoning?).

While all of this was tempting, we decided to give the Italian place one more chance, and this time, we weren't taking no for an answer. Returning to the restaurant, we banged on the door until one of the waiters (undoubtedly, the one who drew the short straw), grudgingly let us in and seated us at a tiny table in the front window.

After serving us bread and water, he informed us that the regular menu items would not be available for another five to ten minutes, and the specials for at least another ten after that. He then attempted to make his escape. The fool. Did he really think it would be that easy? Apparently, he had never dealt with women suffering from low blood sugar before (hey, it had been almost four whole hours since we had eaten!).

After a quick game of "torture the waiter", we did get our food (which I'm pretty sure they spit on), and made our appointment in time. Then, the gods struck again.

Emerging out onto Fifth Avenue at 4:20, we attempted to hail a cab to take us back to Penn Station for our 5:00 train. Since there were about ten cabs scattering the block waiting at the red light, we thought it would be easy enough. Wrong.

The first cab rolled down his window just enough to refuse us. The second cab pretty much had the same response. Odd. When the third cab inched away from us as we approached, we began looking around for the hidden cameras and Ashton Kutcher.

As the light changed, we decided to walk over a block or two and try our luck there. Coming upon a cab just letting people out, we went to jump in, but the driver yelled something in a language neither of us spoke and took off. Now, it was getting really weird. Maybe we should be looking for a tourism office and bowing down before it, trying to appease the gods instead of hailing cabs. The next cab didn't even slow down, but I think it veered toward us a bit before zooming off.

This was pretty much the pattern for the next twenty-two blocks until we reached the station at 4:50, hot, sweaty and a little bit cranky from doing the two minute mile, only to discover a long line of cabs happily letting people out and picking new people up as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Fortunately, we made our train, but the gods were not through with torturing us yet. The only two seats together were at a table for four with an older gentleman who alternated between telling us jokes even older than he was (and I'm guessing he entertained the troops at Valley Forge with the same jokes) and paying us what I'm sure he considered to be compliments, but which would probably get him sued in the workplace.

By the time we realized what we were dealing with, every available seat on the train was taken (don't think we didn't look), and, of course, he stayed on until the very end of the line.

I'm still not sure what we did wrong, but next time, I'm not taking any chances. I am going to find the nearest tourism office to Penn Station and pay a visit before trying to eat or catch a cab. Maybe I'll even buy one of those I love New York T-shirts or baseball caps just to be on the safe side.