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2003-07-28 - 6:14 p.m.

A Change in Venue

Diva and I recently went off on a three-day trip. This outing--not unlike most of our well-intended jaunts—quickly turned into a disastrous adventure.

We had booked the trip, a conference meeting for work, in late winter, guaranteeing ourselves a room in a well-known, reputable hotel. Sometime in early spring we received a flyer from another hotel and convention center: this one our division headquarters and site for our section meetings. Close proximity to our divisional meetings sounded good to us, so we promptly changed venue and rebooked at the Oasis/Atrium Hotel and Convention Center. Why, after all, would we want to stay at the world-renown Sheraton?

Why, indeed!

When we pulled into the entrance lot of the Oasis/Atrium we should’ve known we were in for trouble. We didn’t. When we entered the lobby to register and were told we were in the wrong lobby, we were to go to the other lobby to register we should’ve known we were in for trouble. We still didn’t. It wasn’t until later that night we realized we had once again gotten ourselves into a fine mess. The Oasis/Atrium, although they wanted to add a bar and restaurant someday, did not have a bar and restaurant—as did the Sheraton. That was easy to remedy, we’d find a liquor store and take an evening drink out by the pool (a pool was on property).

We went about our Sunday—attempting to register for the conference only to find we couldn’t register until 4:00 p.m. Monday afternoon—and returned to our hotel late that evening, loaded our cooler with Smirnoff and mixer and took ourselves to the pool. An hour later the pool closed, so we went back to our room to sit on the balcony, with two of the pool chairs going with us. We sat in the hot, muggy night and watched semi after semi after semi roll into the parking lot.

Then we noticed some strange activity in the lot with the trucks. Both diva and I were leaning into the bars of the balcony mesmerized by the goings on in the lot—and apparently going on in the trucks.

“Ahhhh,” I turned to diva, whose eyes were big as silver dollars “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Oh, yeah, Willis. Them’s hos working the truckers!”

We passed the late evening watching the parking lot brothel; early—very early—the next morning we were awakened by hotel maintenance wanting the pool chairs off our balcony and back at the pool.

The second evening our air conditioning misfired and the toilet refused to flush.

Tuesday morning we went about getting ourselves ready to do a few conference related things then later leave for home. But we weren’t going anywhere. The security lock was jammed and we couldn’t exit the room. After some scrambling and some loud and obscene discussion, diva remembered she had a pocketknife thing in her purse which also contained a screwdriver. While she finished dressing and packing I muttered about the wisdom in changing hotels and—eventually--dismantled the lock.

Why, indeed, would we want to stay at The Sheraton!

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