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I don't really like Miami. I am not old enough to enjoy its coffin-like warmth and humidity. Nor am I young enough to participate in the Bachinal like party scene. It leaves me feeling oddly way too old and way too young simultaniously.
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I am at the Intercontinetal again. A hotel whose sole positive feature seems to be its proximity to the offices. Today they sent to a room that has been set up for someone else. Including a welcome letter, and a plat of cheeses and that horrible uncooked ham.
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So I call the front desk to explain this. 14 rings, no answer. So I call the concierge, and they put me through to the hotel manager. She doesn't understand why I went to the wrong room. On the 3rd attempt, she gets it and will call "right back".
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I do not unpack. Because they might change my room.
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I wait
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I wait.
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I call and it goes unanswered again.
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I go down to the front desk, where the clerk apolgises, and goes to see what is up with the manager. The manager comes out and apologizes. She has checked and I can just stay in that room. But she couldn't call me back becasue she didn't know the number. The number of the room she had "just" checked? She invited me to enjoy the ammenities and someone would come up and get the letters.
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Yes, I will love the now-crusty proscitto and dead cheese. I go back up and leave to get ice.
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There is no ice on this floor, I am informed by the nice man who I see who is getting the letters from my room. I ask him if the designers of this hotel knew it was going to be in Miami, a city with the charming climate of sweaty armpits? A city where, after a long day, someone might want some ice? And to relax in their room without rancid uncooked ham?
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This hotel also makes me a little worried by the size of the walls. I am on the 23rd floor, and look at the window. It is set back massively into the wall. I have only seen walls this thick when made of adobe. I am worried I am in an adobe highrise, where Ms. M******ski will barge in later tonight demand her bed and her proscitto while a hurricane bears down on my mud hut.
