I’m in Cincinnati for meetings, staying at the Cincinnatian. It’s a fine hotel, and I particularly like the fact that it has a fine staircase.
I hate the soulless modern hotels where the staircases are kept behind closed doors at the end of hallways, where you wonder whether you’re locking yourself in the stairwell if you try to get some exercise rather than using the elevator. The Cincinnatian, to my delight, has a broad, beautiful, public staircase that it keeps out in the open, ready for use by those of us who like to stretch our legs now and then.
If more hotels and public places had grand staircases, maybe more people would use them and we would have less morbid obesity in this pulpy, bloated, XXXL country of ours.
When I arrived at the Mayflower in Washington, D.C. today, the staff was taking down the Christmas decorations — a sure sign that the holiday season is over, a new year has begun, and it’s time to get back to work. I did manage to arrive before all of the flourishes were removed, however, and therefore got to enjoy this very pretty arrangement of Christmas trees adorning the gleaming first floor ballroom hallway.
Fortunately, I don’t often hear angry voices — and this guy was livid, shouting at the top of his lungs, his furious words, muffled into indistinctness by the window, echoing down the dark streets. I snuck a peek out the window, lest he see me and train his rage in my direction. There he was, four stories down, a one-legged man sitting in a wheelchair, gesturing angrily at no one that I could see. What was he doing on a downtown Cleveland street at that pre-dawn hour? What had caused his awful, uncontrollable anger?
After all, you’re accustomed to your home commode. You’re used to the height, the seating, the back support, and the sound that is made when you flush. So, when you go the road and find one of those new-fangled devices in your hotel room, you have to adapt.
