Hotel Balmes, where we stayed for a few days during our trip to Barcelona last fall, stands out in my memory not for its convenient location nor its seemingly bored-to-tears staff. No. The perfectly-adequate-but-still-lacking-jamon-serrano breakfast does not really jump out at me, either, and our view (of an air duct) leaves no distinct mark on my memory.

What separates Hotel Balmes from so many others that I’ve stayed in is this: it is far and away the smallest double-occupancy hotel room I’ve seen, ever. Of course, “double-occupancy” might just be a silly phrase that we’re supposed to ignore – like “serving size” on a bag of potato chips. In the same bizarre parallel universe where folks only eat 7 Ruffles, two people can fit into a single room at the Hotel Balmes (the two must be related). But in this world, they cannot.

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Dear InterContinental Hotel,

I get the feeling you are trying to tell me something. I just can’t figure out what it is …

If you provide less than three warning labels, a kitten will die.

-

Perhaps it will come to me after I’ve finished blow-drying my hair in the bathtub.*

Sincerely,

The Everywhereist

*Oh, calm down. I used a sealant to protect my roots. AND ALSO I DID NOT USE A HAIR DRYER IN THE BATHTUB. Electrocution is not funny. Three warning labels on a single hairdryer kind of is, though.

Forged by Lucifer himself, I'm sure.

I have a brilliant idea for a horror movie. It would begin like this:

A couple – a young man and woman – enter a hotel room. For the purposes of casting, let’s say that the man, dark-haired, bearded and handsome, will be played by Joshua Jackson. And the woman will be played by me (SHUT UP IT’S MY BLOG). They enter the room together, the man tugging a suitcase behind him, his toned arm flexing against his Ted Baker suit jacket, which he’s paired with a dress shirt, jeans, and, oh, I don’t know, yellow shoes. And no one cares what the woman is wearing because by the end of the movie her clothes will be in a crumbled pile in the corner of the room after a gratuitous sex scene.

Ahem. I have completely lost my train of thought.

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In the wake of a few miserable hotel stays, Rand has hit his limit. He has, apparently, had enough of toilets that don’t flush properly and continental breakfasts that look like the remnants of a cold-war-era kitchen after a particularly harsh winter.

“We’re going to start staying in nicer places,” he told me the other day. And I smile and nod, because I’ve heard this resolution before (usually after a particularly heinous experience overseas). And while I appreciate his gesture, I remind him that I don’t need to stay in fancy hotels. I don’t need prosciutto at breakfast, or a central location, or an expansive, pristine bathroom. I simply need a comfortable bed (I’m flexible on the size), a pitch-black room, and a reasonable amount of quiet.

Of course, if a hotel has all of those attributes, I’m not going to complain. Even if a night’s stay costs more than my first car (and considering that my first car was a 1976 Ford Pacer, there is often a good chance of that) and the nightly rates make my heart stop (just for a few seconds), I will say nothing, because if I am allowed to spend my days blogging and gallivanting around the planet, my husband is allowed to book us a crazy nice hotel once in a while (I am nothing if not reasonable). Which is precisely what he did in Rome.

We spent four nights at Hotel Raphael – a small, vine-covered boutique hotel just a few steps from Piazza Navona. The Raphael will not make any budget travel lists. It will not rank for “Good Deal Hotel Rome”, nor will it make the cut on any “Italy on $50 a day” articles. And that’s okay. Hotel Raphael realizes what it is not: it is not affordable. But it is so many other things (immaculately clean, quiet, with an obliging staff, an abundant breakfast, and a fantastic location) that you can almost disregard this. Almost.

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There comes a point, when traveling, that you simply cease to care. You may find that everything in your suitcase inexplicably smells like sauerkraut, or that you are sharing a train car with a guy who you are absolutely certain has a hacked up body in his bag, and provided none of those things prevent you from getting to your next hotel/shower/meal, they do not bother you at all. (If they do threaten to come between you and your destination, beware. I’ve gone from exhausted and apathetic to crazy-ninja-attack-mode in 3 seconds).

In my personal experience, it takes me roughly six or seven days on the road to reach a point of imperviousness. After that, my response to most things is, “meh.”

Packing mishap has led me to wear the same pair of ill-advised skinny jeans for 6 days in a row? Meh.

Inexplicably on a subway to Queens, when I really meant to go to Chelsea? Fine. I’ll check out Queens.

Accidentally found ourselves eating baby horse (after a translation mishap in Venice)? Whatever. Pass the eel (yes, we also ordered eel. Many mistakes were made on that night, long ago. It was awesome).

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Yes, I am finally writing about something other than the TSA.

<THUMP>

Wait, was that the sound of you passing out from shock? I thought so. But yes, it’s true: I’m way, way, waaaaay overdue in blogging about our trip to New York last month. (Not to mention our subsequent trips to London and Bulgaria. But a girl has to start somewhere, and I’m starting with Chelsea).

So why don’t you grab some ice for that bump you just sustained to the noggin, and read on (don’t worry: my blog reads better with a little bit of light head trauma).

Last month was our bazillionth trip to New York, and it was the very first time we stayed somewhere other than Midtown. Rand booked us a room at the Maritime Hotel in Chelsea. We were both a little hesitant to not only be staying in a different area than we were used to, but also at a boutique hotel. I was a little concerned that we wouldn’t get the whole New York experience unless we were a block off of Times Square, surrounded by crowds and flashing neon lights.

As usual, I was miserably wrong. Staying in Chelsea provided us with far more of a Manhattan experience than we’ve ever had. Even before we checked in, Rand ended up holding the door for Christina Ricci (in true Rand form, he had no idea who she was and was just doing it to be nice. “When I saw she had one of those little dogs with her, I almost let the door close. But that would be mean.”) The number of gorgeous folks who gravitated around the hotel was staggering. On one morning, I found a gaggle of models in the lobby.

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I may have sustained a serious bump on my head during our last stay at a Kimpton hotel, because the French doors in our room decided to plot against me (note: always be wary of the French). And I might have gotten into a slight skirmish with the packaging on my vanity kit, because I don’t like it when toiletry items tell me what to do. And I might have freaked out slightly when I encountered this in the shower …

GAH! KILL IT WITH FIRE.

-

Yes, I put a dime next to it to illustrate juts how long it was. But you know what? Whatever. Like I said, this stuff falls into the “unexpected joys of travel.” Things are occasionally a little off, even if you are in a nice hotel. Hell, things are more than a little off in my own home, and no one seems to mind that (or if they do, they say nothing. Thank you, all of you).

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