Ah, back on the road - that old, familiar feeling returns so quickly. Driving a few hundred miles every day, crossing our fingers for a decent food stop, checking into a new hotel every night, and unpacking and repacking the car...oh, it's the only way to travel.
For the route back, we're only hitting "major" cities since there are no extended stays at national parks or other points of interest, and the South scares me too much to veer far off the beaten path. So far, things are going well - albeit some strange encounters and experiences at last night's Sheraton.
If any of you ever travel with your dog, you know that some hotels provide you with fun doggy packages upon check-in. Usually, we're talking anything as small as a couple of treats to make the welcome more pleasant; though Kimpton Group hotels provide toys and treats and all sorts of fancery for their "VIP" guests (these are the canines). W Hotels will even make sure your dog has his own bed, and walk him upon request.
Sheraton is a Westin hotel like the W, but the lines of distinction are pretty clear - particularly when it comes to dogs. Last night, upon check-in, I had to fill out and sign some forms that promised Moby wouldn't pee on the walls, poop on the floor or bark all night. After doing that, the woman helping me proudly reached behind her into a cabinet, and pulled out what she called, "a special package for our VIPs." Oh yay, fun - a cute little bag - I bet it's stuffed with some goodness Moby will enjoy.
Fast forward 10 minutes. Brad, opening the bag, says to Moby, "Let's see what we have!" (Yes, it's normal to talk to your dog.) And after rustling through some tissue paper, he pulled out...a surgical glove. Pause for confusion. Then he reached back into the bag and pulled out...a second surgical glove. He removed the tissue paper and shook the bag. Out fell...a paper dog tag.
Now, let's review just so that I can make sure you get this straight. The Sheraton provided us with surgical gloves, apparently to give Moby a proctology exam; and then a paper dog tag that would smudge and tear within 24 hours. And they put it in a cute bag, as if that would somehow disguise the super shitty "gift." (Although I have to admit, I have done this before - gotten a really cute and oddly expensive bag at the stationery store for a gift I knew just wasn't that great - hoping the bag would distract the recipient, and at least look good to others who may never know what's actually inside.) But come on, surgical gloves?!?
No, seriously - I have to presume this was their attempt at a poop bag. Brad and I discussed, and it's all we can come up with. You put on the gloves, your dog poops, and you pick it up. Now, what you do with the gloves at that point is where things get fuzzy for me. Do you try to slip one glove off and around the poop, like a bag of sorts? How do you avoid getting poop on your hands? Do you walk around holding it until you find a trash can? There are just far too many things wrong with this method.
Suffice it to say, we threw away the welcome package - thanks, but no thanks. And moments later, the party next door started.
You know the sound of a bunch of girls standing in a circle dancing, with a different girl going into the center of the circle and doing some sort of bootylicious move that elicits high pitched squeals and "Woooos!" That's what was happening in the room next to ours - until 1:00 in the morning - when we were ready for bed and had the hotel shut down Total Request Live.
It was actually a great night's sleep, until we woke up to learn that the elevator wasn't working - and we were on the 7th floor. Not a huge deal if you don't have enough luggage to, oh, last you for two months. Yeah.
But after all was said and done, we made it out of Richmond safely - which was all I really wanted. And to turn that frown upside down, we discovered a chicken and biscuits chain called "Bojangles" that truly may have been some of the best fast food eating I've ever had. I'd Yelp it if I didn't think that was just a little bit weird, and might seriously call into question my other reviews.
And now, here we are in Asheville. No surgical gloves, no Dance Dance Revolution (DDR) and we're housed on the first floor.
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