Packing and Haunted Hotel
I am a notoriously poor packer. It is not an over-packing situation; it is a having-the-wrong-clothes and forgetting-stuff situation. It used to stress me out but I now accept this character flaw and I embrace shopping. I am not hiking the Himalayans - most places have stores.
My latest adventure posed some challenges. A San Diego starting point, grey and freezing New England for the holidays, then three weeks at the American Academy in Rome, with a stop-over in Venice. I own many suitcases and they reside in many locations; inconveniently, my large suitcase did not return from summer holiday on the east so I departed with a carry-on.
The topper was my unfortunate holiday shopping spree two days before departure when I purchased a new tea kettle for my mother because obviously, they do not sell tea kettles in Boston…that kissed half my space goodbye. The remaining space was claimed by art supplies and shoes. I had effectively screwed myself packing-wise from the get go.
Once in Boston, while negotiating the ice, wind, snow, and emotional fun over the holidays, I hit TJ Maxx for help. The problem is that I am far too southern Cal, I cannot embrace sweaters or turtlenecks and in December in New England, that is what is offered. I did find a hearty rain coat so with my Vuori sweat jacket, new Costco Puma’s, a wannabe Louis Vuitton scarf, and a decent pair of jeans, I had the basics. Shopping in Rome now topped my list, followed by haircut - then all that Vatican, Colosseum, Pantheon stuff.
On a bitter January day, I left my mom and Reggie, boarded for the friendly skies, and placed my faith into two things – air travel and a Patriots Sunday win.
Venice
Venice – what a gem! It blew my mind. Of course I had seen pictures of Venice, but to be there, a completely different story! It is sinking, it is crowded, it is confusing – and it is magical. Any city with no cars and strong commitment to boats immediately has my heart.
My great friend and ace travel agent, Jonathan, once again delivered - an affordable hotel in the thick of it, breakfast included. The only challenge was finding it. As I wandered the alleys trying to figure out what direction I was heading in and cursing myself for not purchasing one of those TJMaxx turtleneck sweaters, I kept wondering What did people do before google maps? Even with my GPS, it took serious effort to negotiate the narrow walkways, bridges and steps. Let’s not forget: I had the big suitcase, not the carry-on, but the motherload, so this was no easy sledding.
I found it. Hotel Montecarlo, a quaint little place with a cheery front desk person who methodically delivered the hotel information. Breakfast from 7am – 10am. Tea served from 4pm - 6pm. And always leave the key at the front desk.
My room was small and great. The walls were decorated with a funky fern patterned wallpaper, a dark, British style floral rug covered the uneven floors, and a window adorned with heavy green drapes looked out over roof tops. Hello Venice!
I took myself out for a celebratory first-night-and-here-I-am-in-Italy dinner. It was lovely. A glass of Chianti, fresh bread with olive oil and glazed balsamic, and a pasta carbonara. A bonus was the newlywed Aussie couple who sat at the end of the table and told me about their upcoming adventures in Lithuania. A great start!
The restaurant was only twenty steps from my hotel so I had no trouble getting back. I thought I would have a little down time and watch a show but I failed getting on my mother’s Amazon account to watch my Britbox addiction and Ambien substitute, Shakespeare and Hathaway. Amazon did not transfer that series to Italy, a minor yet disappointing glitch but I was not too worried since I had traveled for twenty-two hours, had sensory overload, and opted for that second glass of Chianti. I figured I would sleep like the dead.
I did.
Until the dead woke me.
It began with the lights. In the pitch dark I woke up to a glowing light display on the ceiling. I thought I was tripping but then reminded myself that I have never taken a hallucinogenic. I sat up and took stock, where am I? Once I regained my bearing and hydrated, I sprang into action.
Obviously, the lights are coming from an outside source, or so I thought. The single window was blocked by the ceiling to floor drapery which could have been used for the Van Trapps children’s play clothes. The drapes were closed. No light was coming from the bathroom. I scoured the room. Nothing. Just as suddenly as they began, the lights stopped, and I willed myself back to sleep.
Sometime later, I was awakened by noises - footstep noises, coming from the walls. Someone was having a dance party in there which was impressive considering I was in a solo room with no shared walls. Then the glowing ceiling lights returned.
Surprisingly, I was fine. Not panicked. Not scared. I was oddly accepting of whoever wanted a rave inside the walls with a light show on the ceiling. Once again, I willed myself to sleep.
It was a short nap.
I woke to a frightful darkness - an ominous presence that seemed intent on enveloping me. I was terrified. I switched on the lights, hoping for relief, but the feeling of doom and danger clung stubbornly to the room. My instincts told me to flee, to run as fast as I could. Unfortunately, I was jetlagged and lazy.
Instead, I tried channeling positive thoughts. That accomplished absolutely nothing. So I mentally asked my deceased father to step in. This actually helped – briefly - but my father was notoriously ADHD, so his protective presence wandered off almost immediately. As the darkness crept back in, I escalated and summoned his brother, whom I had never met but who was universally regarded as a genuinely lovely person. That did the trick.
When in crisis, or frankly, for every day matters, I consult my brother. I called him in LA. He urged me to take action, Go to the front desk and change rooms. I explained that this was not the Marriott and perhaps, just perhaps, since Americans got coal in their stocking this year, they consciencely put me in the haunted room.
I needed a strategy.
Step one: leave the room at daylight and not return until completely exhausted.
I hit the streets and walked the city. I stared at countless crucifixions, annunciations, battle-and-victory paintings. I got endlessly lost and turned around. I was sufficiently tourist fatigued.
Step two: forgo dinner, slam a glass, or two, of wine with two Benadryl, and slip into a sleep coma.
Happy to report, success. A full night’s sleep, no ghost gang.
When I checked out, I asked the front desk clerk if there had ever been concerns about ghosts in my room. He calmly informed me that there were ghosts in other rooms, but no one had ever mentioned my room.
I said, “Add it to the list.”
I am a notoriously poor packer. It is not an over-packing situation; it is a having-the-wrong-clothes and forgetting-stuff situation. It used to stress me out but I now accept this character flaw and I embrace shopping. I am not hiking the Himalayans - most places have stores.
My latest adventure posed some challenges. A San Diego starting point, grey and freezing New England for the holidays, then three weeks at the American Academy in Rome, with a stop-over in Venice. I own many suitcases and they reside in many locations; inconveniently, my large suitcase did not return from summer holiday on the east so I departed with a carry-on.
The topper was my unfortunate holiday shopping spree two days before departure when I purchased a new tea kettle for my mother because obviously, they do not sell tea kettles in Boston…that kissed half my space goodbye. The remaining space was claimed by art supplies and shoes. I had effectively screwed myself packing-wise from the get go.
Once in Boston, while negotiating the ice, wind, snow, and emotional fun over the holidays, I hit TJ Maxx for help. The problem is that I am far too southern Cal, I cannot embrace sweaters or turtlenecks and in December in New England, that is what is offered. I did find a hearty rain coat so with my Vuori sweat jacket, new Costco Puma’s, a wannabe Louis Vuitton scarf, and a decent pair of jeans, I had the basics. Shopping in Rome now topped my list, followed by haircut - then all that Vatican, Colosseum, Pantheon stuff.
On a bitter January day, I left my mom and Reggie, boarded for the friendly skies, and placed my faith into two things – air travel and a Patriots Sunday win.
Venice
Venice – what a gem! It blew my mind. Of course I had seen pictures of Venice, but to be there, a completely different story! It is sinking, it is crowded, it is confusing – and it is magical. Any city with no cars and strong commitment to boats immediately has my heart.
My great friend and ace travel agent, Jonathan, once again delivered - an affordable hotel in the thick of it, breakfast included. The only challenge was finding it. As I wandered the alleys trying to figure out what direction I was heading in and cursing myself for not purchasing one of those TJMaxx turtleneck sweaters, I kept wondering What did people do before google maps? Even with my GPS, it took serious effort to negotiate the narrow walkways, bridges and steps. Let’s not forget: I had the big suitcase, not the carry-on, but the motherload, so this was no easy sledding.
I found it. Hotel Montecarlo, a quaint little place with a cheery front desk person who methodically delivered the hotel information. Breakfast from 7am – 10am. Tea served from 4pm - 6pm. And always leave the key at the front desk.
My room was small and great. The walls were decorated with a funky fern patterned wallpaper, a dark, British style floral rug covered the uneven floors, and a window adorned with heavy green drapes looked out over roof tops. Hello Venice!
I took myself out for a celebratory first-night-and-here-I-am-in-Italy dinner. It was lovely. A glass of Chianti, fresh bread with olive oil and glazed balsamic, and a pasta carbonara. A bonus was the newlywed Aussie couple who sat at the end of the table and told me about their upcoming adventures in Lithuania. A great start!
The restaurant was only twenty steps from my hotel so I had no trouble getting back. I thought I would have a little down time and watch a show but I failed getting on my mother’s Amazon account to watch my Britbox addiction and Ambien substitute, Shakespeare and Hathaway. Amazon did not transfer that series to Italy, a minor yet disappointing glitch but I was not too worried since I had traveled for twenty-two hours, had sensory overload, and opted for that second glass of Chianti. I figured I would sleep like the dead.
I did.
Until the dead woke me.
It began with the lights. In the pitch dark I woke up to a glowing light display on the ceiling. I thought I was tripping but then reminded myself that I have never taken a hallucinogenic. I sat up and took stock, where am I? Once I regained my bearing and hydrated, I sprang into action.
Obviously, the lights are coming from an outside source, or so I thought. The single window was blocked by the ceiling to floor drapery which could have been used for the Van Trapps children’s play clothes. The drapes were closed. No light was coming from the bathroom. I scoured the room. Nothing. Just as suddenly as they began, the lights stopped, and I willed myself back to sleep.
Sometime later, I was awakened by noises - footstep noises, coming from the walls. Someone was having a dance party in there which was impressive considering I was in a solo room with no shared walls. Then the glowing ceiling lights returned.
Surprisingly, I was fine. Not panicked. Not scared. I was oddly accepting of whoever wanted a rave inside the walls with a light show on the ceiling. Once again, I willed myself to sleep.
It was a short nap.
I woke to a frightful darkness - an ominous presence that seemed intent on enveloping me. I was terrified. I switched on the lights, hoping for relief, but the feeling of doom and danger clung stubbornly to the room. My instincts told me to flee, to run as fast as I could. Unfortunately, I was jetlagged and lazy.
Instead, I tried channeling positive thoughts. That accomplished absolutely nothing. So I mentally asked my deceased father to step in. This actually helped – briefly - but my father was notoriously ADHD, so his protective presence wandered off almost immediately. As the darkness crept back in, I escalated and summoned his brother, whom I had never met but who was universally regarded as a genuinely lovely person. That did the trick.
When in crisis, or frankly, for every day matters, I consult my brother. I called him in LA. He urged me to take action, Go to the front desk and change rooms. I explained that this was not the Marriott and perhaps, just perhaps, since Americans got coal in their stocking this year, they consciencely put me in the haunted room.
I needed a strategy.
Step one: leave the room at daylight and not return until completely exhausted.
I hit the streets and walked the city. I stared at countless crucifixions, annunciations, battle-and-victory paintings. I got endlessly lost and turned around. I was sufficiently tourist fatigued.
Step two: forgo dinner, slam a glass, or two, of wine with two Benadryl, and slip into a sleep coma.
Happy to report, success. A full night’s sleep, no ghost gang.
When I checked out, I asked the front desk clerk if there had ever been concerns about ghosts in my room. He calmly informed me that there were ghosts in other rooms, but no one had ever mentioned my room.
I said, “Add it to the list.”
