A TASTE OF SOPHISTICATION

I read in the New York Times that Paris Hilton had lost her house in the great LA wildfire last week. This is sad. Losing one’s home means losing treasured memories, photos, etc.

“Is she the one who is famous for going to parties?” Dan asks.

“I thing she has a business now, but, yes, she’s a socialite and a Hilton,” I reply. This conversation took place last weekend and I only recalled it because we stayed in the Hilton Doubletree Hotel in Hartford last night. I was performing a story at a Speak Up Storytelling event in the Connecticut Museum of Culture and History, a two hour drive from home.

In the olden days when we did a lot of musical gigs in folk clubs we stayed in budget motels and on stranger’s couches. Dan had a day job but I was a free-lance signpainter and also worked with a marionette theater. We needed every dollar and would never have dreamed of staying in a hotel, much less a Hilton. But things drastically improved for us during Dan’s retirement. The Hilton is close to the museum so Dan booked a room with a king-sized bed for overnight. I must say the bed was comfortable, the shower had good pressure and hot water, the toilet flushed and they provided Crabtree and Evelyn guest soap. 

The room looked as though it had been designed by a group of art school flunk-outs. It had all the ambience of my childhood dentist's waiting room. The color-scheme was primarily dark brown, black and dingy oyster white. The black and brown rug had turquoise accents and the pattern that reminded me of standing atop a rotting deck. The wall across from the bed was dominated by a gigantic black screen mounted on an even larger brown rectangle. To the right of this monolith was a metal door with so many locks and bolts it could have been in a New York City apartment. This apparently lead to the room next door. On the screen’s other side was a huge round mirror that looked like a four foot Shaker tray with a brown edge that stuck out into the room.

Under all of the above was a “desk” that resembled like a brown door stuck on ugly metal legs. An equally minimal dark cabinet sat under the screen holding a non-functioning mini-fridge. The handles were of the kind that catch one’s sleeves; all of the metal was a tacky brassy color. The wall behind the bed was “decorated” with a horizontal strip of what looked like blue watercolor lines painted by an amateur watercolorist. There was a sharp-cornered tan couch which doubled as a pull-out bed. In front of it stood a bizarre round plastic table that looked like a prop from “The Jetson’s” cartoon show. Two blurry industrial images framed in large cheap black metal frames hung arbitrarily on the walls, adding to the gloom.

For a dash of color accent, someone had provided a rose-colored desk chair, a round-ish modern-ish thing on a swivel base with a brass handle attached to the back. Anyone hoping their back could touch the chair back had to either sit with their legs straight out in front or have abnormally long femur bones in order to bend their knees.

We were only sleeping there, Dan pointed out. Had the room not been costly, I wouldn’t have minded its looks so much, I told him. But we had heat problems as well. When we entered the room, it was boiling hot. The vent, a big ugly square grate located inches from the ceiling on a portion of the wall that stuck out, as if it concealed an air duct. We shut off the heat. Within minutes, we were freezing. Dan set the thermostat to sixty-nine degrees and turned it back on. The air began blowing again, hitting me no matter what part of the room I went to. I put on my gloves. Dan temporarily solved the wind problem by piling u[ a stack of our suitcases and the couch cushions until it reached, and partially covered the grate.

We left and went to the performance and upon returning went downstairs to have a glass of wine in the bar before turning in. Hotels have done away with old-fashioned blankets, switching, instead, to “duvets.” A duvet is basically two sheets sewn together with some quilt lining in between. This way, the hotel doesn’t need bedspreads or blankets. I knew Dan wouldn’t stay warm enough. Luckily, I found a thin, blanket-like cover in the closet for him. I threw my winter coat overtop of me, reminding myself that in the old days I had slept in a sleeping bag for a week, stuffed in-between the folds of the mainsail atop the boom of Hudson River Sloop Clearwater in Long Island Sound. I had slept for many years on the floor and once had even slept inside of my harp’ padded soft case (without the harp). 

In the morning, having tried and failed to drink the “complimentary” coffee which was like bile mixed with cleaning fluid, we thankfully took our leave of the Hilton. I think Paris and her friends who have lost their houses should move to Hartford while their homes are being re-built. They could give the nanager some design tips. 

For out next overnight visit to Hartford, Dan and I will stay fifteen minutes north in the town of Vernon where we can book a very nice room for one-quarter of what he paid to stay at the Hilton.