Greetings From Hotel Di Shithouse

My absence from the land of blog was not self-imposed, but instead work related - which meant I was city bound and PC-less.  It was difficult losing access to that portion of 'me' and not being able to read the blogs of those that I follow and have come to adore.

It was a big week; one of learning that required tolerance, and involved nasty cab drivers, bad showers, reduced personal space, irrational bed-bug fears, minimal sleep and some spew for good measure.

My week was spent in the big city; home of the ipod society.  It never ceased to amaze me, just how many people would walk in the streets and in the shops with their ipods firmly implanted in their ears.  It surprises me that people in the city are so desperate to tune out of the 'right now' that they would choose to be permanently plugged into a soundtrack that overrides the sounds of everyday life. I. Don't. Get. It.

I went along with two other ladies from my work, and it proved challenging at times to say the least.  Both ladies, are fine company in small doses - but a five day stint was tough for me to bear.  I think perhaps I'm just the kind of gal that needs a little space, and less talking... much less wordiness.  The hotel we were staying in (and I use the term 'staying' very loosely) was a disaster.

It was the kind of place where one might expect to contract some form of hepatitis if you were to sit down... and we won't even mention the kitchen utensils.  There were the three of us, sharing one room, three beds, a very small TV, no windows, no escape. My favourite design element was the 'false' deadlock on the front door, but the winning item would have to be the bathroom.  Gross at day, but oh, at night when the light went on - a whole other dimension.  One of those thoughtful switches that combines the light and fan into one user friendly switch.  Said fan, had the auditory presence of a small aeroplane - an aeroplane, moments from crashing in flames that is.  And the shower head was a beast of misery - its performance could be likened to the feeling of being spat on by The BFG - in a generally random and unpleasant manner. Can't believe I survived it. Can't believe my room mates survived me surviving it.

The actual purpose of the trip was for training.  The training itself went well, although made my head hurt at times.  The facilitator was charming, interesting and motivational.  She was the kind of person, who just by the way she conducted herself, you knew her life was a series of fantastic moments and stories all stitched together into a fine thread of existence.

But, there could only be one truly golden moment, and that had to be on my flight to the city.  Sadly, I suffered a bout of travel sickness, right at the very end of the flight.  I was a good passenger and I used the paper bag provided for me by the airline.  I was exiting the plane, spew bag in hand - strangely saw no bins in the aisle as I completed my walk of shame.  I came to the door that led down the steps to my freedom, and Fernando the flight attendant stood there to say goodbye. He wore the stock-standard Qantas smile, until I asked him politely what I might do with the bag, as I shook the paper shame in his general direction - quick as a flash, the smile was gone, replaced with a scowl as he told me to leave the softening, warm bag of spew on the shelf next to him.  Really, I thought you want to leave 'that' to the influence of gravity? But, I did what he told me - whatever you say Fernando. I'm not going to argue with a man named Fernando, especially when he's in perfect position to push me down a flight of stairs.

And so, I leave you with a dedication. Enjoy...

SB xx