» Hotel Splendido

The Beachcomber
This last New Year's, the family & I made our way down to Florida to visit various relatives. Somehow my father had picked the Beachcomber out of a list of various hotels; auntie popped in and told us it looked decent from the outside and the lobby. Very well, say we, the Beachcomber it is! It's got a view right on the oceean - what else could one ask for?

Oh how naive we were.

The first sign of danger was when we checked in and were pointed in the direction of a gate "off to the right in the parking lot". We try the first gate we find to the right of the lobby. It leads... nowhere. A couple incredibly narrow back alleys, complete with huge puddles and dripping overhangs. Delightful. We go back, continue hunting, and find another gate farther down. Our keys work here as well, but this will be the only point during the trip; we spend the next three days reaching through the bars to unhook the latch. Security is clearly a priority here.

Our room is actually more of a bungalow. Once again - how delightful! Oh hey, what's this? The parents have found hairs in their soap dish. Brother & I frown sympathetically. "Well of course you can use our bathroom - " except not only have we got a hairy soap dish as well, we've also got a DOOR. That's right. A full-on door to the outside. In our bathroom. And a huge window smacked up next to it. Said window is frosted glass, but shapes are clearly visible through it... and there are NO BLINDS. Showering in this room is an exercise in paranoia.

There is also a more normal door in the kitchen. Sadly, its lock is busted.

In the vein of further bathroom adventures, the toilets occasionally start up in the middle of the night, producing an eerie watery noise. The lights sometimes choose to flicker on and off as well, adding to the whole 'about-to-be-murdered' atmosphere.

We eat at the hotel restaurant for breakfast on our second day. It arrives cool and mediocre; when we inform the waitress, she offers the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Our bill has a tip added to it without our knowledge; when my father inquires, he is informed that "honestly, 20% is average, we really go a bit under." This is not so infuriating unless you've ever worked in a restaurant - then you know that 20% is a GOOD day, and any twunt who expects 20% every time is off their meds. (Later, my father goes back to complain, and the waitress in question tells him "I don't really care - I don't work here anymore" before heading off into the sunset.)

When we return from breakfast, the maids have been through. They have left us a whole NEW set of muddy footprints. What sweethearts!

Our sole delight at the Beachcomber is the sign outside that reads "Sammy Lee: Back From Atlantic City". We spend endless time amusing ourselves with descriptions of what Sammy Lee is probably like. We picture a vaguely greasy middle-aged man, hair slicked back and thinning, flirting with lower-class divorcees who smoke Pall Malls and have perpetual inch-thick roots in their blonde hair. We develop an entire history for Sammy Lee, and - to our great anticipation - he arrives on our last night! We march off to see the show in great excitement.

Sammy Lee is an elderly Jewish man playing "Hava Nagila".

It kind of summed up the entire experience.
(Sat 19th Jan 2008, 18:28, More)

» Phobias

cicadas.
I am afraid of nothing in life. Insects of all sorts are my companions - I see trillion-legged things go skittering about under my desk, and I shrug and tuck my feet up and go about my business. I once held a boa constrictor about my shoulders. Not a stereotypical girl at all! Even mice and rats are adorable.

But cicadas. God-damned fecking cicadas.

The best image I can paint for you is this: last summer, a friend of mine decided to go to the beach. I volunteered to accompany him. Said friend and I have a long history; to make it short, I'll just say that I own his balls. I've bested in him in verbal matches. I've straight-up bitchslapped the boy when he deserved it. I am the queen supreme of our friendship, and he has not doubted for one second that I hold the power over him. Except for that day at the beach.

That day, we arrived. We made our way towards the beach. And within thirty seconds of arrival, I came to the horrible realization that there were cicadas EVERYWHERE.

In the span of thirty seconds, I went from calm, controlled me to OH GOD OH GOD MAKE IT STOP. I was a twitchy, nervous wreck, shuddering, making jerky Tourette's-like motions every time I heard something that remotely resembled their shriek. I cowered, drew my arms in, held my bag up to my chest to protect me, but then every half a minute I'd realize that OH WHAT IF ONE GETS ON MY BAG OH FECKING CHRIST IT'D BE RIGHT NEXT TO ME HJSDFKJSDF and then I'd proceed to flail my arms away from me and shake my bag until I was convinced it was safe. Then I'd draw it in closer. Rinse. Repeat.

In addition to my bodily motions, I was also alternating between inhumanly high shrieks of terror, uncontrollable sobbing, and gasping, shuddery breaths that bordered on hyperventilation.

My friend, to his credit, defended me until a ride arrived (at the time, both our cars were broken down, and I had to call my father in humiliation.) He had his towel in hand, and, like a ninja, he TOWEL-WHIPPED cicadas out of the air if they approached. This helped calm my panic a bit. Of course, a bucket also removes a bit of water from the Pacific, so...

However, I will never forget the moment when he tried to reassure me, "Oh hey now, ariza, they're not so bad - look - " and he fecking PICKED ONE UP AND HELD IT OUT TOWARDS ME.

I will never forgive him that moment.

The kicker to the whole story? Last year was the time of the 17-year cicadas. For those not in the know, these buggers only come out once every 17 years, and they do so in absolute droves. I had never seen a cicada in my life before last year.

I do not think I will be in the area in 2024.
(Sat 12th Apr 2008, 6:08, More)