You Ain't Seen Nothing

My fabulous niece Helen and I drove up to Maine for our annual Just Us Weekend. I had a mission -- get the transplanted Texans kitted out for their very first Upstate New York winter. What better place to go than the Bean Outlet in Freeport?

I figured we’d stay in nearby Portland at a cozy downtown Bed and Breakfast. Sadly, being in a major spaz mode, I didn’t make reservations early enough. In fact, everything was booked solid and I was lucky to score a room at the Holiday Inn. There was a giant convention of some sort in town.

On past visits to this awesome bijou of a city, I’d stayed there with The Amazing Bob (it was our Mustang Breakdown Tour) and Jen. The joint’s well situated just two little blocks from the museum but it’s most certainly not brimming with charming, snug, sweetness. That’s what I'd wanted.

All the Holiday Inn had left was a big, big suite. Cool but it was a smoking room. We checked in and yes, the place was def Benson & Hedges perfumed. We cranked the AC to the max in an effort to air the place out and went out to explore town.

After a fab round of sushi at Fuji we returned to the hotel. My thought was that we could sit at the bar and conventioneer watch. The dullest biz types become utter peacocks when unmoored from their real lives -- home, hearth and family. Besuited men and women alike will say outrageous things and talk about the most intimate aspects of their personal lives with total strangers. Why? We Americans love to talk about ourselves -- we’re one nation in constant search of a spotlight or a shrink/father confessor/warm-shoulder-to-whine on -- or so it seems.

It’s entertaining as all hell as long as you’re fine and dandy with your audience/observer/therapist-ish roll.

Sadly though the bar was empty -- open for business but desolate. Bummer. Where were all the conventioneers and their stories dammit?!

We got back to our spacious suite and found that much but not all of the Cig Stink was gone. Shockingly even the bed’s pillows smelled as though they’d been washed in Marlboro scented laundry soap. The helpful front desk folk were gracious and swift about having these replaced.

The following day, after our Bean Bonanza Tour, we decided to have a quiet glass of Sangiovese in the room before heading out in search of a happening people watching venue.

Helen went to the bar to get a couple of stems. Simple, right? Nope. The late afternoon bartender acted as though her wine glass request was outlandish and imperious -- as though she’d requested his grandmother's heirloom crystal. She managed to get him to talk with his equally contemptuous manager who would only lend her a couple of glasses IF she returned them to the bar that night by 12:30.

What the ever livin’ fuck?! Did this clueless, small town Napoleon (who should really get help for his rabid insecurities) truly think he was providing stellar hotel customer service with this condescending, sneering horse shit?

Then, on climbing into bed I found this -- a cigarette burn hole in the the top sheet right where it’s crisply folded down over the blanket.

Was this an oopsy oversight by the overworked chambermaid or a passive aggressive dis for having them replace the smelly AND horrifically lumpy pillows?

The following morning at check out, when asked if everything was OK/good with our stay, I told them no and why. Julia, the tremendously gracious weekend manager came out, was apologetic, assured us that this was not OK or the norm and then gave me a discount on our very expensive room.

This is all well and good but I won’t be staying at The Holiday Inn By the Bay again. It’s not just the profoundly rude and ignorant bar manager or the burn holes in the sheets (though isn’t that enough?!). The hotel is geared more to folks on business trips or, possibly, packaged tour bus groups not visitors who want to experience Portland’s charms.

Apart from this, our Just Us Weekend was fabulous. More on that tomorrow though.

Elton John -- Holiday Inn