babylon world remembered

I want to be a hotel receptionist again. I want the chaos of a busy Sunday morning, the crazy staff, the coffee spilled over the desk, the alcohol-fumes, the malfunctioning computers, the excitement, the mad laughter.

I miss the feeling of having everything under control, knowing everything, having all the information at my fingertips and managing a thousand loose threads. I miss yawning together with the night manager at seven in the morning when I am barely awake enough to locate the coffee. I miss the tears of weariness and frustration long after midnight when the till won't balance. I miss chatting to exotic strangers, exchanging a knowing glance with a coworker, being flirted with by drunken guests.

I love the feeling of danger when entering a cavernous hotel kitchen where the mad, bad and dangerous chefs are ready to pounce on me from behind enormous simmering pots. The crystal glitter of the restaurant, and the smoky depths of the bar where magical stories are being told and smart cosmopolitans frown at red-nosed regulars. The nerve-centre which is the reception area, where everything happens at once and everything is known.

I remember the smile of a handsome waiter in a waistcoat and the broken English of a foreign kitchen porter in a stained apron. I remember cursing under my breath at a complaining guest while smiling sweetly. I remember hiding from the manager in the back office with a coworker and a stolen piece of chocolate cake, giggling hysterically. I remember being absolutely, explosively, uncompromisingly furious. I remember unexpected, strange gifts and feelings of complete betrayal.

I want all this again. I was alive.