October 13, 2004
Halley’s bed-and-breakfast rant
Halley is hilarious (and ribald) about why she hates b&b’s.
I hate them too, but my reasons don’t require me to use the phrase “doggy-style.” In part it’s because, as Halley puts it so well, “The kooky couples who decide to run them are eavesdroppers at best and psychotic quaintmongers at worst.” Ok, that’s a tad harsh (but funny), but it’s true that, in my experience, the owners often trangress the lines. For example, the owner of one b-and-b carefully pointed out to us a coffee table book the cover of which had a photo of a baby emerging from a vagina. “That’s our daughter,” she said proudly, leaving it to us to decide if she was referring to the baby or the vagina. Some questions are better left unasked. (Of course, that left our coos of “Gosh, so beautiful!” unfortunately ambiguous.)
Even when the owners are not characters played by Kathy Bates, I have other issues that make bed-and-breakfasts only a little more appealing than sleeping on a tarp spread out in a parking lot. For example:
The owners pretend to be delighted to see you.
You have to pretend to be interested in their collection of 19th century compass tips.
Your strained conversations with the owners come precisely at the moments when you don’t want to have a strained conversation: When you’re checking in after a long trip and when you want to read a newspaper while eating breakfast.
The obsessive orderliness of their house silently rebukes my own slovenly appearance.
Apparently I am supposed to be so fascinated by my room’s knotty pine paneling that I won’t want to watch TV.
Before you leave in the morning, you have to examine your room to see what kind of impression you’re making.
Stealing the towels takes a special kind of courage.