On Friday I ran away from home.
Alas, it wasn't exactly a dramatic escape. It was a pre-planned day and night so that I could catch up on my novel writing. Since my parents are in town and had volunteered to watch the kids, it was a rare opportunity to get away.
I had made reservations at an out-of-the-way hotel on the north fork of Long Island, facing Peconic Bay. I thought it would be romantic in a writerly sort of way to be all alone on a chill night, facing the deserted windswept beach as I wrote. Since I'm not a spur-of-the-moment kind of gal, I had reserved my room in advance, mapped out driving directions, and spoken at length with the front desk about assuring me an early check-in time.
But even the best laid plans gang aft agley. (See? I really am a writer!) When I got to the hotel, which was really a sharp right turn from the ass end of nowhere, the place was deserted. The office was dark and empty. The parking lot only had one car besides mine, and a thorough search of the grounds revealed that it belonged to a cleaning lady who didn't speak a word of English. She did, however, rummage through the office desk until she found the home phone number of the woman who was supposed to be at the front desk. I used my cell and tried to reach her, but to no avail. So I waited and waited, and finally gave up. Then I drove to a big, plush, fancy Hilton nearer my home.
So, despite losing a few hours writing time, perhaps it worked out for the best. Being alone in a luxurious room with my laptop and a live line to room service was really just what this writer needed. And now, instead of being behind schedule on my novel, I'm a little bit ahead.
Is there a moral to this story? I'm not really sure. Maybe it's just that a king-sized bed and room service is a damned good alternative to a surfside view.