It took me this long to get back into my hotel room. Yesterday when I awoke, the désespérée was still sleeping. In a gesture of courtesy, not to mention appreciation for the early morning antics to which I was treated, I decided to let her sleep and have my coffee downstairs in the salon since it was too cold to sit out on the courtyard. When I returned to the room, I found her dancing to Manu Chao and learned that she'd already sent back the room service coffee three times, finally offering the kitchen a note on how coffee should taste. If M. Soutric learns of these shenanigans, I'll be back to paying rack rates so fast it'll make your head swim.
When I tried to point out to her that this was not a venue where the staff was in need of tutorials from her, she started screaming and the only way I could get her to stop was to leave the room. She promptly bolted the door preventing my return as well as any form of lucid discussion concerning the living arrangements.
As a consequence of all the above, I spent the night in the bar--and later the salon, where the staff was gracious enough not to ask if there was a problem--making overseas phone calls to people whose time zone made it practical to receive my calls. It was during one of these calls that I learned that one can no longer order a Ramos Fizz in the Sate of Arizona. This is totalement anecdotique, but it seems that the egg in its natural state is a proscribed substance.
Having regained access to my suite--well, junior suite--I intend to get sufficient rest, if not sleep, so as to be in shape to watch the Super Bowl later on.
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