Weak-end

Although I spend more than half of my year on travel, it’s not too often that I spend the weekend in a hotel. A few times each year, when looking at some tight variance in my schedule, I decide that it’s easier and cheaper to stay put in DC rather than to go home and come back on a short turn-around. These plans are made a month or six weeks prior to that specific trip, and almost always (when I’m actually on that trip) I regret that decision and wish I had planned to go home, if even for part of one day.

This weekend the decision to stay put was easier because my second meeting (starting Sunday) is at one of my favorite hotels. The Courtyard Gaithersburg sits on the edge of a lake and is bordered on one side by an 18 screen movie theater and the other by a row of restaurants, coffee and book shops and a Super-Target (just in case I run out of underwear or socks). It’s a great place to be if I can’t be at home.

I arrived here Friday night after leaving my previous meeting location in Arlington, VA. The taxi driver was none too happy when he picked me up (expecting a quick trip to the nearby airport) and I told him that instead I needed to go twenty miles through heavy rush hour beltway traffic. Still, he was polite and accepted that like most of us, he must take the good with the bad. Since I was the “bad,” I tipped him well when we reached our destination safely and with no typical DC taxi driver NASCAR maneuvers.

My room is nice, with a beautiful view of the frozen lake. I unpacked quickly, making the room into my personal living space for the next five days. That first night I grabbed take-out from the California Pizza Kitchen next door and came back to my room for some HBO and relaxation.

I’ll use the excuse that I have a lot on my mind to explain why I always forget that people who come to hotels on weekends are totally different that the calm, sedate, serious people who are usually in hotels during the week. Business travelers have been in meetings or doing some other work all day long. Many are jet-lagged. We know that the alarm will go off early the next morning and we must spend yet another day doing the exact same thing. We ride the elevators quietly, staring silently at the floor or sometimes giving each other a nod and the shared expression of “yeah, I know.”

As I settled onto the couch and scanned the channels of the television, I heard the first of what would be a steady pattern of noise coming from the room next door and the hallway outside. Laughter…loud, raucous, obnoxious laughter…echoed into my room, mixed with voices raised to the level usually reserved for cheering at a high school football game.

I’ve been on this bus before, and I don’t like where it’s going. I called the front desk.

“Hello, this is Michelle, how can I help you Mr. Warford?”


“Uh, yeah…I was wondering if there were any floors where there aren’t any groups of…uh…do you have a floor where there aren’t any…uh…people?”


“I’m sorry, is there a problem?”


“Well, it’s pretty loud on my floor. It sounds like there’s a party or something. I was wondering if there might be a quieter floor I could move to?”


“I’m sorry Mr. Warford, but we’ve got several groups in house this weekend. A reunion, two wedding parties and a few school groups. I’m not sure there’s a quieter floor, but I can send someone up to ask them to keep it down.”


I’ve played that scenario out in my head before and it never works out well. I’m always afraid that whoever comes up and tells them to be quiet will point at my room and say “that guy said that you need to shut up.” The next day the maids will find my door lock broken and my room is suddenly a crime scene. I thanked her for her offer and hung up the phone.


I listened to the voices. They were all relatively older. That was a good sign. They would probably go to bed early. I was grateful not to be on the floor with the school groups. Depending on the quality of the chaperones, the kids can party pretty late. This group sounded like they were already up past their bedtime, so their body clock and medication should start kicking in soon. 

It sounded like there were four women in the room next to me. From the sound of her hacking cough, one appeared close to death. I also believe that all or part of them were hard of hearing, because everything they said was in a yell. I turned up my television to the point that my ears were nearly bleeding and I could still hear them yapping away.

Thankfully, their slumber party crashed at around 10:30pm; their dreams of reliving their youthful “all night gab-fests” falling victim to the ravages of age and wear. I can relate. I enjoyed another hour of relative peacefulness before I crashed myself.

I was hoping to sleep late, but the ladies were early risers. The sick one got up around 6:30am, slamming the door to her bathroom and spending at least fifteen minutes trying to cough the lungs out of her body. I covered my head with a pillow, but I could still hear her. Finally, I was so overwhelmed with both annoyance, concern and a little bit of nausea that I knew I would not go back to sleep.  

I turned on the television and made a pot of horrible hotel room coffee. I’ve never had a good cup of in-room hotel coffee. I’m not sure why they even provide it, considering that it’s usually so weak and tasteless that it should really be called “brown water,” but then again, I keep making it, as I assume many others do, so they probably think we can’t get enough. We are our own worst enemies. 

I had breakfast downstairs surrounded by who I assume were the reunion and wedding folk. There were not a lot of teenagers, so the school groups must have gone the fast food route. That was a good thing. They would have eaten all of the bacon in the buffet. As it were, the heaviest traffic was at the oatmeal station, so I took that as a sign to have some protein.  

I was reminded why I like this hotel so much when I checked the movie schedule and found that there were showings as early as 9:30 in the morning. They don’t show movies in the morning in Tennessee. I think that it’s assumed that you are doing something productive at least until noon.

I sauntered over and settled in for a showing of the Mel Gibson movie, Edge of Darkness. I used to see movies at least once a week, but I’m considerably behind right now. This would be a good time to catch up. After the movie, I strolled around the lake and enjoyed the early afternoon sunshine. It was such a beautiful day that I almost forgot about the annoyance factor of my fellow hotel guests.  

I grabbed take-out from California Pizza Kitchen again. After trying and loving their Jambalaya Friday night, I couldn’t resist getting it once more. I am nothing if not a creature of habit. Also, one thing I have learned in my excessive travel…repetition is comforting.  

On my way back into the hotel lobby with my bag of Cajun goodness, I ran into a cluster of Stepford teens that I could only guess was part of the school group I had heard about. This clique must have been restricted to slender brunettes with dark eyes, and smiles that were only used for private jokes and insincere taunting.

They were walking just ahead of me in the narrow hall that leads to the elevators. A few glanced over the shoulder in my direction, and then turned back and giggled. I had checked my zipper carefully before I left the room and knew it was not down, so I assumed they were giggling because I was alone and they were in their element.  

Like a wolf pack, they felt strong. I was older, but considered weak. Somehow, at such a young age, they had the presumption that they were better than everyone else. I didn’t care. I’ve seen their kind before. I’ve been laughed at before. When I was younger, it bothered me. Now that I’m older, I could care less. I’m also aware of their weak spots.  

They reached the elevator just as the door opened and an older couple exited. The girls pushed past them and turned to face me as I approached. They looked at me like I was trying to break into their party, but I had no interest in getting on the elevator with them. I would gladly wait for the next car.


One of the girls, probably the ringleader, gave me a quick once over and said in a sarcastic tone, “Sorry, but I don’t think there’s room for anyone else.” The other girls giggled. One in the back put her hand over her mouth to stop a laugh.

I nodded my head in agreement and smiled. “I think you’re right,” I said. I surprised them by putting my hand out and halting the door when it was trying to close. They stopped giggling. I leaned in a little and looked around. “These things are supposed hold several more people, but it looks like you girls have taken up all the space. You’re probably pushing the weight limit too. I’ll catch the next one.”

I reached over and hit the “door close” button and stepped back. Their confused faces quickly disappeared behind the sliding silver panels. I’m sure they talked about me as they went to their rooms. To them I was just some weird, overweight old guy who didn’t know what he was talking about. But if I planted even one tiny seed of self-doubt in any of their spoiled, overly-entitled little minds, I feel like I did the world a great service.

As soon as they were gone, I grabbed the next elevator back to my floor, where a night of laughing, wheezing and loud talk awaited. I was grateful. They would all be gone soon, leaving me to the quiet hallways more suitable for  the weekday, business traveler.


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