Not dead. Just very, very tired.

Folks, I have much to tell you. But right now, since I missed my weekly round-up on Friday, and nearly missed posting today, I thought it best to delay all my crazy tales of woe to simply inform you that I am alive, and haven’t given up entirely on travel, writing, and the human race in general.

And why would I? Why throw in the towel just because not everything has gone my way? Even though the last few weeks have been insane and frustrating, I have it easy. And I need to remember that. My racing heart and shortness of breath are due to the fact that my life is exciting and interesting, right? As is the tingling in my left arm, I’m sure.

Plus, bruises heel, don’t they? As do welts. Even if they’re smack dab in the  middle of your forehead.

But the emotional scars of bad customer service take a bit longer to fade. Fortunately, we have online reviews to write, that act as a balm to our hurt feelings. And sternly worded letters to send to supervisors and managers. And Twitter rants to share. Justice will be had, 140 characters at a time.

Because while I am acutely aware of what a lucky gal I am, gallivanting around the world with the love of my life, I am nevertheless convinced the hotels are messing with me. And not just the Plaza Inn and Suites (which I’ve alluded to, and which I promise I will tell you about once I have a few more drinks in me), but other hotels which I know and love. Some of them have tried to do nice things for us, like upgrades and moves. The results of which have been dangerous and not at all fun. Clearly, the road to customer service hell is paved with good intentions.

Take, for example, the Hotel Monaco, in Portland – a little boutique hotel that I really enjoy. We always have a great time there, and even the smaller rooms are quite nice. So when they upgraded us to a suite for this trip, we were rather delighted. And the room was lovely: a big bed, eclectic decor, and a sitting area with a desk and couch. Pretty snazzy really. Even a French pocket door to separate the two rooms.

Oh, that damn pocket door.

Here’s the thing about the door – it didn’t recess completely into the wall. The door itself stuck out about six inches past the molding. I didn’t realize this, and in the pitch-black of night, wandered through the room with my hands in front of me. I caught the molding and, thinking that the door was flush with it, proceeded to walk through.

My worthy foe.

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I ran straight into the protruding pocket door with my forehead (how I missed my nose is a mystery that will never be answered).

Sigh. At this point it became clear: my hotel room was clearly mocking me. It was pushing me around. Beating me up. Later, I would find this in the bathroom:

This sounds like a challenge, if you ask me.

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And then, dear readers, in a fit of exhaustion and anger, I might have screamed, “DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO.”

That’s right: I had a fight with the warning label on a cotton swab. It was only trying to warn me, of course. But, stubborn as I am, I ignored it entirely. Until, of course, I stabbed the tender inside of my ear on accident.

Sigh. At least my left arm has stopped tingling.

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