Wednesday, February 27, 2013
The Hotel Room
I'm in a really fantastic hotel room right now. I'm not far from home, in fact I can see both my house and the office from here. The window near my cubicle faces this direction, and the next time I'm at work, I'll look out the window at this tall hotel and see this spot and know that I was here, in this room on the south-east corner of the 26th floor.
This room has a stunning view of San Francisco, and a good view of Oakland and San Leandro and beyond. I'm in the dark - so I can see better - in bed, and so help me I could stay here looking at this view for days. I plan to leave the curtains open all night, so when I inevitably wake, I can look at the view.
The Bay Bridge is covered in lights, millions of lights, an art piece recently installed that flashes patterns suggestive of other not-bridge things - champagne bubbles, eddies of water, cars driving, falling rain - and I have a damn fine view of that especially.
The thing is, some jackass put an enormous flat screen tv against the window across from the bed, effectively blacking out the center of this stupefying view. The San Francisco skyline stands lit up and majestic at my feet, but no, here's a fucking tv with it's back turned dumbly to it. If I was staying here longer, I'd move the tv, but since it probably weighs as much as I do, I've been working around it. I ordered room service and pushed the cart right up to the window to eat my dinner, with the lights off of course. Earlier, I stood at the windows at one end of the room then the other and strained to look around the edge, to see as far around the sides as I could.
But it hasn't all be this eager looking. I also went to the spa. As it happens, many months ago I bought a package of three massages at a deeply discounted rate at the hotel spa, and since I was staying here tonight anyway, I figured this would be a perfect time to use up my last rub down.
The therapist I had was excellent. Not only was the massage deep and relaxing, but after, he filled a paper cup with wine so I could take it to the hot tub - no glass at the tub, of course. What a pal! When I got to the tub, it was full of little children, but I was relaxed and happy and had a to-go cup of cheap chardonnay, so I didn't mind. By the time I got dressed, I was ready to become a batty eccentric and move into the hotel, spending my days staring out the window and going to the spa (who'll pay for it I have no idea).
But none of that is why I'm legitimately here. I have an excuse: it's for work. I'm doing a work thing in a ballroom here tomorrow, a thing that I arranged and produced and am responsible for. I have had many emails and phone calls and meetings with the good people of this hotel, and am spending a lot of the office's money here, and I can only assume that's why I've been upgraded from the normal room I was supposed to have. Or maybe it's just because the hotel people came to understand, over all those emails, phone calls, and meetings, how much I'd love this view.
Regardless, after the spa, I came back up to the room, put on my pink velour track suit, turned out the lights, ate mac & cheese and salad while watching out the window, and listened to 70s soft rock. There is little more I could possibly want or need. A humidifier maybe - it's dry as a desert in here. But a trip to the steam room would take care of that.