Category Archives: Personal

The lovely welcome of a hotel room

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A highlight this month has been a tour of Ireland. Each day of the tour I selected four photos out of many and wrote a short paragraph on Facebook, and that seems enough for now in terms of description; amateur travelogues are not actually that compelling. (Remember those long and boring slide shows we used to endure when someone from family or friends had done the requisite pilgrimage to Europe?)

Suffice it to say that Ireland is a beautiful country with a complex and fascinating history, and that my short tour will inform me in various ways going forward. I enjoyed it very much.

However, I do have the self-imposed resolution to post here at least once a month, and in fulfilment of that vow and retrospective of my trip, I’ve been thinking about hotel rooms. A tour takes one into a “new” hotel room on many a night, though there are a few times when the stay is two nights, and the need to not pack up in the morning a definite bonus.

When I enter a hotel room on a tour, I seem to promptly forget the previous room. I decided to take photos of the rooms this time, just to remember them a little. It’s not that hotel rooms in a middle-of-the-road tour differ much; they’re usually rated at a 3 or 4 (I think I’ve only stayed in a 5 star room once), and those we stayed in were more or less the same — you know, bed, bathroom, closet, coffee maker, TV. Perfectly clean, pillows generally thick and abundant, sheets and duvets white and crisp (and far too tightly secured under the mattress). Still, there was always a bit of excitement in me each afternoon or evening when we reached our hotel destination, a curiosity about the room, a glad sensation of letting myself down into its welcoming and undemanding hospitality. Here it was. For me to use. To sleep in, to retreat in, to return, if only briefly and partially, to a sense of domesticity and home-ishness in the midst of the travelling that takes one away from home to unfamiliar places.

I liked the rooms I stayed in. One was memorable for its little window nook with two chairs and windows on three sides. Another turned out to be a family room, with an additional bunk bed; I almost wished to gather some urchins off the street to have a bit of that kind of company! The Titanic Hotel had rivets on the door!

A hotel room may announce itself with its decorative flourishes but it doesn’t speak with any kind of intimate personality such as the rooms of our homes do. It doesn’t talk back, in other words, just invites us in, and without judgment lets us take our shoes off and put up our tired feet.

How I Got Scammed

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No excuses, but it was early and I was just beginning my coffee. I was checking my mail, my social feed. Checking to see what was new, and then I saw a post about an investment project by none other than Mark Carney, whom I happen to respect. Now I will admit that I skimmed rather than read it carefully, that my mind had immediately thought war or savings bonds, that type of thing, and what a good idea, thought I, and since I’ve been feeling especially patriotic in the last months on account of you-know-who (haven’t we all?) I clicked, and long story short, I was led to believe it was exactly as I’d supposed. And before I knew it I had joined the club and given my credit card number in the amount of $250 (U.S. I noticed later). I was passed from one person to another to “Patrick”, my personal minder, I guess you could call him. As soon as I gave up my number, I got a cell ping from my credit card company with a warning, and there were a few other red lights flashing by now, but to every fear and/or objection I raised came assurances as smooth and confident as maple syrup.

When “Patrick” asked my name, he exclaimed that, wow, his wife had just read my book, something about a hidden thing, right, an Amish story, right? “Mennonite” I said, still quite friendly, even though I was beginning, yes, to have doubts about everything. Half my brain told me he had simply googled my name and come up with this information, but the other half was, I’ll be honest, flattered, even kind of excited at this amazing coincidence, because his wife thought it was such a great book; she simply loved it! And somewhere along the way I must also have indicated that it wasn’t greed for returns that motivated me but patriotic idealism, for I had enough to live on, and by this time, I can also assume in retrospect, he calculated my age and thus knew I had some money in the bank. Worth fishing for.

Long story short, as I say, I did realize I’d been hooked for something that wasn’t what I thought it was, and now it was too late to get out of the credit card transaction. Shortly after, I wrote and said I’d felt pressured, I wanted out immediately. With apologies and cheer I was informed that yes, of course, they hadn’t meant that at all, and the next day I would find my deposit returned in full along with what I had already gained in one day. Which was truly there the next morning, with $100 “earned” on my “investment.” Wow, good returns, eh? But by now I knew they were just upping the bait. At any rate, I locked my credit card (and later cancelled it).

When “Patrick” said he would call the next day, I said he should do so at 11 a.m. I arranged to go over to my son’s place for that time (he was working at home). Ashamed, embarrassed, I explained the situation. He confirmed its scam-ishness. Then the phone rang. “Patrick.” I said Hello and handed the phone to my son. He gave “Patrick” a thorough scolding, for leading his mother along and all that. If he exaggerated my capacity (lack of, that is) a little, so be it; his vigorous defence of me felt good.

Although it ended well enough, there was still the mess to clean up. Once the transaction moved from “pending” to paid I did the dispute process,.The credit card assistant reminded me that I had freely given my number, but fortunately the transaction was successfully reversed. It may seem that I scammed the scammers, for technically I got back all I gave and more, but it’s not quite true, for my bank has bracketed that transfer and it will be investigated by their fraud department, so neither the bank nor I will be liable for receiving fraudulent funds. And it was such a huge hassle, cancelling my credit card, changing all my passwords, taking various other precautions, and my stomach was in turmoil for a couple of days until I felt innerly strong again.

I asked my son not to tell anyone about his mother’s foolishness and he agreed, but several days later he said, “Actually, you should talk about it.” He’s right. So I took his advice and have been compelled, like the penitential Ancient Mariner, to tell my tale to others. Sharing such stories and one’s vulnerabilities can be a mutual education. In the process I’ve heard of others’ follies and gained from their lessons.

But now I’ve told “the world” on my weblog so maybe it’s enough.

Otherwise I’m having a lovely summer, being extra careful on all fronts, no impulsive clicking, and the local hydrangea flowers are at their most glorious and the blackberries are a-ripening.

Thinking about arches

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I like arches. I’ve been thinking about them–their sense of invitation and transition. The way they frame what’s ahead. I don’t mean famous arches like L’Arc de Triomphe in Paris or the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. but simple arches I’ve encountered.

This first one is created by trees meeting over a path to the dike I often walk, and just beyond it is View–of the bay, which is sometimes beautifully spread with water and sometimes, when the tide is low, less beautifully spread with mud.

The next is also local, also of greenery. Enter this portal and you’ll be in a peaceful, quiet Tsawwassen place of trees, flowers, and plants called The Secret Garden.

And I love detouring through this one on my way to the library. It’s structural, yes, between two parts of a condo building but leads to a large reflective pool with koi.

I have a few favourites from travels. First one is in Turkey, one arch opening to another. It seems both holy and mysterious. Second, somewhere in Europe, Freiburg I think (and don’t you just want to go through and around the corner to that street?) Third is in Central Park, New York. The ceiling nearly grabs all the attention but there, at the end, three arches, stairs, and light.

And as metaphor? In the ordinary, daily life? For me a book or story is like an arch that summons me into another place. The exercise of gratitude is an arch as frame around the day’s happenings. Any shift of thought or action that leads me toward a different, perhaps wondrous view or next steps is an arch to go through gladly.