the revenge of the hotel receptionist

Someone did upset me. As I still do the odd shift at Heartburn Hotel, I had the bad luck of running into one of the truly despicable people that disgrace this world.

Arrogance, is it not the worst feature in a human being, be it conscious or subconscious? This particular man made ridiculous claims regarding the price of his room (yes, money is almost always the root of evil). We might have been able to reach a compromise were it not for the fact that he clearly thought I was so far beneath him that he could not react in any other way to my suggestions than laugh condescendingly. Good for him we were speaking on the phone; had he been standing before me, he would have had to try that laugh through my surprisingly strong hands squeezing the nasty chuckle out of his throat.

After years in the hotel business, I have noted that hotel guests in general are pleasant enough people. Better hotels tend to attract more unpleasant customers, for some reason. So I assumed I was more or less safe from these, working at Heartburn Hotel. But there is always the exception to the rule. This particular customer did not even have the excuse of being rich and snobbish... not that that is much of an excuse.

Customers everywhere have the right to complain, of course. But a complaint should, first of all, not be taken out of the air on some poorly founded reason. Secondly, there is a nice way and a nasty way of complaining. The nice way usually accomplishes more.

Here's advice to all arrogant hotel guests trying to get freebies by making ridiculous complaints: the hotel might bend to your will, in accordance with the principles of good customer relations. But hotel staff will not always, in spite of our smiles, take it lying down. The next time you avail yourself of our services, you might find that you have been placed on the black list. Or that, for some reason, only the smallest, darkest room is available, or that something in your food tastes funny, or that through an unfortunate accident, no laundry service is available just when you need it.

Because the Universe gets mad when you laugh at lowly receptionists.

upset me, somebody

I dreamt of playing a wooden trumpet that kept falling apart and laughing so hard that all my sorrow dissolved.

I turned around in my bed and dreamt of my stalker. I woke up furious.

I have powerful emotions in my dreams. I have violent eruptions of feelings in my imagination even when I am awake, making up heated arguments and upsetting events. In my real life, there is also emotion. But few ever get to witness it.

People just don't upset me like they should.

belles lettres

We read to know we are not alone. Sometimes I write to know I am not alone.

While the darkness falls like velvet outside, I light a candle for lonely writers everywhere.

on stolen socks and snowbows

A puppy stole my sock today and my sister gave me a shirt and I walked through my playground and childhood dream. I don't know any of the neighbours anymore but their cats and dogs come out to say hello.

The sun is very low in the sky, and brighter than in summer. First snowfall was yesterday but the sun shone then as well and a rainbow (snowbow?) rooted itself in the prison yard not far from my window. I couldn't get in to look for treasure.

My stomach hurts and I see the world through a massive fatigue. Nevertheless, I long for a friend and a glass of wine. I also want to mean something.

stay in the cold world

A friend tells me - with an indulgent grin - that I am considered a Nerd because I have actually read something by the new Nobel Prize winner in literature.

I stick my nose up in the air, proudly. Then so be it, I am a Nerd. I analysed a short story by Doris Lessing for a literature class at university years ago. (For truth to be told, the choice of author was not mine... and I did not particularly like the story.) I can hardly remember the story now and have to look it up on the Internet. It is called "To Room Nineteen" and tells about a woman who realises life did not turn out the way it was supposed to do, and now she feels stuck in a role that is not her genuine self. She secretly withdraws to a room in a little hotel - the only place nobody can find or disturb her, the only place she can be herself - only for a few hours at a time, and becomes increasingly addicted to these moments of solitude.

I seem to remember it was not a particularly pleasant story, witnessing the woman withdrawing gradually from reality until the only option is suicide. At the time, hungry for life, I shrugged it off. But now, years later, I suddenly understand how she felt.

The pleasure of escaping from the too harsh reality into a place of quiet solitude where nobody can make any demands on you. Necessary at times, but if you make this place your home you are in danger. Instead of gaining strength from it to go back out there, you stay back in a dreamy state and gradually lose interest in everything the outside world has to offer. And gradually, the anguish creeps up on you. When it becomes too heavy to bear, you have already cut too many ties to the real world to be able to make your way back, or even ask for help.

So I will force myself to go back out there. I will call a friend even when I am tired. I will say yes when someone challenges me. I will put down my book and attend volleyball training even when I have to walk through a snow storm to get there. I will keep drinking my coffee on the balcony, shivering in the cold but with the sun on my face.

coffee break therapy

Today I will not write about God although as the Good Book (almost) says, the keyboard speaks what the heart is full of.

I am in a new-old state of semi-unemployment as my season in Heartburn Hotel is over. But I am slowly learning to live one day at a time. How difficult it is! How afraid of boredom I am! What is so scary about silence and doing nothing at all, letting my own thoughts and state of mind creep up on me?

Pouring my second cup of coffee, I force myself not to take it back with me to the computer but instead venture out on the balcony. In the October chill, I shiver with my cup under a blanket and stare out towards the bay and the fantastic colours surrounding it. If I concentrate, I can hear the birds.

Surprisingly, what comes out of my subconsciousness is not the usual vague anguish but hope, some contentment, even a faint shiver of... joy.

holiday beneath a McDonald's sign

Autumn at 63 degrees north with explosive colours, bleak sunshine, fog, a cold that surprisingly bites your fingers.

I have searched the entire Internet for a trip southwards. Something simple. A flight out of our local airport, a hotel someone else has chosen, a destination not too far away, with a little sun and interesting things to see. But above all, not too many tourists. And therein lies the difficulty. Why can nobody on the entire Internet understand that I do not want to spend my hard-earned holiday surrounded by drunk tourists from my own country, loud music and McDonald's signs?

I go bleary-eyed looking for a holiday and my neck muscles are stiff. I need... a holiday.

there is comfort in the world

New sense of freedom and the sun shining on glittering sea when I woke. The daylight seemed a bit gentler than usual, with a hope for the future or was it perhaps the mercies of the past, like the voice of a lover whispering in my ear. I dug out an old skirt from the closet to wear with suede boots. Beauty makes the world beautiful and sometimes it's an act of will.

Sometimes I am too weak to be an adult. I want someone to take care of me, do the difficult things. Never seem to find the balance between making my own life and allowing God to lead me in ways of adventure I could never have found on my own. But then, that's life. The search, the struggle, the confusion and the comfort of not being alone with it all. And the sudden joys that shouldn't be there, logically.

I read stories on the Internet while drinking bitter coffee, I dream of a library full of books with more stories and I want to walk through the city and look at people in admiration or maybe buy something that makes me look different. Maybe I lack a purpose but if I bury myself in the details I don't have to look at the bigger picture and feel the anguish.

The hotel calls. On my first day of freedom, they want me back to do the bad shift. To hell with the money that will pay my bills this winter. I say, deliberately, no. Freedom is to be treasured, not thrown away.

The world is screaming "you are ugly, disgusting, worthless" and keeps whipping me with its impossible demands. Or is it inside me? Sometimes those gentler voices reach me and I drop out of the rat race, sobbing, and are laid to rest on a bed of clouds - where I could spend much more of my time if I only learned to listen to the right voices.

When we know so much better, why do we keep believing the lies? I can't answer that but I will think of it today as I wander through the city in my suede boots and remind myself that everyone is worth loving and that there is a good book in the library and a friend waiting for my company tonight.