Dirt

Ray Brook, NY

July 18, 2008

There is dirty. And then there is dirty. I was informed of this distinction a few years back by a lady who does house cleaning. She should know. Prior to this conversation I never looked closely at the levels of dirt. And its correlation with attitude, apathy or arrogance. I was set up for this by the immaculate condition of my pension in Nuremberg. True, the room set a record for paucity of square feet, but what it lacked in volume it more than made up for with sanitation detail. The room was spotless and if I dropped a few bread crumbs on the floor, I would pick them up and throw them in a bag lined, closed topped trash receptacle, of which there were several. I know what you're thinking, well, of course, it's Germany, but the same was true in France and England before that.

Not so here in Lake Placid.

Last year, sister Kathy, my hired driver for the weekend, and I stayed at the Tail o the Pup halfway between Lakes Placid and Saranac. We immediately joked about the rustic accommodations, the dearth of hot water in the shower stall and the bubbas lines up outside our door with cash in hand, eagerly ordering BBQ ribs, chicken and pitchers of diet coke. It was, after all, a vacation for her, an assignment for me, and if I could save the company $900 for the four days by slumming in the joints "cabins" instead of paying the five day minimum gouge at the host hotel (where rooms are $350 A NIGHT), then so be it. But that was last year.

What a difference a year makes.

I was late in reserving my hotel this year, admitted, so when Eddie called and said that they had a cancellation and I was one lucky guy, I took the bait and gave him my Visa numbers. And I showed up yesterday, tired and ready for a nap.

First indication that things had changed was the fact that there was no doorknob. No lock. Just a swinging red door with a screen that looked like somebody took a Bowie knife to it. The floor is listing about 9 degrees towards the bathroom, where the toilet is playing back the tape from the last "guest" to vomit into it, on an endless loop. I have never heard such a sound coming from a toilet. I am getting a little concerned now, and look for a chair to hang my jacket and rest my gear bags. None. I look at the bed, the only article of furniture in the room, and notice that the bedspread appears to be one of the designs that was on-sale at Macy's. In 1974. It is filthy. I look behind the pine bedposts and see, bottle-caps, candy bar wrappers, cigarette butts, and dust-balls. Remember that there is no other room available for a 125 mile radius.

So I put all the gear back in the trunk of the Kia Rio and head out to find an ice chest (there is nothing but the bathroom sink), a pad lock, and a six pack of beer. I will think about all this, sip a cool Guinness, and make a decision. It might be better to sleep in the car. But I need to charge at the camera batteries and Garmins, so there is another challenge. Plus, per normal, my back hurts. Gawd almitty.

I am used to taking one for the team. But this was a test of a completely different level. And I was being tested. And I refuse to cheat on life tests by throwing money at it.

So I sip on the aforementioned Irish stout and go see Hellboy II. When I leave the Palace theatre I am now faced with the dilemma. Confront Eddie and haggle the price, Sleep in the car, relent and go to the Best Western in Saranac and pay $200/night, or tough it out.

Having shut off the water supply to the toilet, I stood in the light rain outside the cabin pissing at 3 in the morning, thinking that there is dirty, and then there is dirty. And then there is THIS.