It’s 2 a.m. body time, and I’m checking into a faceless, charmless hotel room hermetically sealed from all life outside. An air-conditioned box where I can let fall away all sense of time or place. I set out my things, and, knowing I don’t have a meeting til dinner time (local time) I drop into white sheets, cool and almost silky (with wear, not thread count), and I succumb to the slumber.
Oh, it’s a rich, chocolately sleep, and I know I’ll pay for it later. I’m 13 hours off of home time, and my body rebels against dinner’s heavy requirements, so I eat like a bird. Not the bird that’s on the lazy susan round table before me…though that one has lost its feet, and mine must look like a chicken’s.
Knowing full well I will wake at 1:30 a.m. local time, just as fresh as I’ve come from rest hour at camp. And when it happens, my stomach growls. I need to fill it, but it’s cranky like a fussy toddler.
What’s this in the mini bar? No Paprika Pringles? What’s this Roast Chicken flavor? Must be in China. And a Heineken (because there is no local beer), in a vain attempt to court sleep with booze. Ah, the funky aroma and bitter palate of the ubiquitous green-glassed brew.
There’s a Heineken in every corner of the globe. You know what it looks like. I deleted the picture from my phone ages ago.
So much savory bird on the table but where are the chicken feet?