This place is not what it was advertised to be. No longer a Crowne Plaza, it is being converted to a Holiday Inn Express. My first impression is that it’s a bit shabby and empty – hard to tell how much of the changeover has been accomplished (the fellow at the desk said, ‘we’re being renovated,’ and a small sign confirms that). The large lobby is nearly empty, except for a few chairs on the far side, well away from the reception desk. Though it is only two weeks until Christmas, there are no Christmas decorations. The rugs in the halls are worn, and the accommodations are pretty basic for a mid-price chain hotel room. The steel elevator door has a mysterious greasy handprint out of reach at the top.
In the room, I have two big beds – very high. I have to launch myself into bed by rolling myself in. There’s a reading chair, a “desk chair” on wheels, but no desk, only a small oval table with the ice bucket and coffee things on it. Big working TV, clean bathroom, though the toilet paper had not been put on the roller, just set next to it, wrapped. Picky, picky. First world problems. A wood panel beneath the sink has not (yet?) been secured, so it falls off if you bump it. But the room is clean and apparently newly painted – Renovations!
When I first arrived, I thought the GPS had brought me to the wrong place, as there was no sign for a Crowne Plaza, down a dark secondary road. Once informed about the takeover, I inquired about parking and was told to park in the many-tiered garage, but to take my suitcases in first, as “the garage has no elevator.” Luckily, I commandeered a handicapped spot by the front entrance. Blessings on the handicapped hang-tag! Next, I found that my key cards would not work – had to return (down the elevator with the greasy handprint) to the desk to have them redone.
So here I am, beginning my “free luxury weekend,” which I will later pay for by attending a sales pitch for the timeshare I have no intention of buying. Good thing it is free. I am now in the restaurant (should I use scare quotes?), eating a turkey club sandwich with three tissue-thin sheets of grocery-store-style pressed turkey and about half a head of lettuce. The bacon is real, however. Fries are okay, though – no ketchup. Must hail Gabby, the waitress, when she reappears, and must order my second glass of mediocre wine.
There’s a small lit-up Christmas tree in a darkened empty area a way off, in what looks like an abandoned banquet space. My fellow guests are an uninspiring group, so I fit right in. Glad I didn’t bother to wash my hair before driving over from Albany. There’s a washed-out elderly couple sitting side by side in a booth, so they can watch the TV that’s silently flashing over the bar – some news show, not FOX, not CNN. About seven or eight men, some chatting to each other, some hunched over their phones, sit at the bar, eating and drinking. At least four are wearing ball caps, thankfully none of them MAGA. A younger couple are sitting in the booth behind me, also sitting side by side so they can watch the TV. Is this a Pittsfield thing? They speak loudly enough for me to hear their conversation, which is mainly about what is wrong with their dinner. I think they are very choosy, until my sandwich arrives. We are all very, very white, it being dead of winter in western Massachusetts. One of the men at the bar is wearing athletic shorts with red stripes down the legs, despite its being December 14th.
Now the TV is tuned to Wheel of Fortune. This seems appropriate. A second man wearing shorts just came to the bar. His are jeans shorts, though. The exercise room is also on this same floor of the building – maybe they are having a post-exercise beer? Neither one looks particularly athletic. New ballcap arrives, wearing long jeans and a long skinny ponytail. Jocular arguing with shorts guy #2, then exclaims, “I gotta go! I gotta go!” And off he goes. It’s possible that some of the men at the bar are traveling for business. Some could well be the workers who are responsible for the renovations.
I wonder what the going room rate is for my “free” room. Glad I am calling this weekend “a writer’s conference for one.” I pull back the curtain by my table, wondering what the view is, and look into the faces of two women and their little kids, who are eating their dinner at a table by the pool. The pool is being used, mainly by small children.
Jeopardy comes on. The old couple leaves. A woman and three young girls, all different ages, all four in bathing suits, get off the elevator and head to the pool. The mother is carrying a decorated birthday cake.
Where is Gabby? I’m still waiting for that second glass of wine. Okay. She took my order, and is now talking to the couple behind me, describing in painstaking detail how the chef messed up their orders, it apparently having taken several tries for him to get the extras they wanted on their burgers just right. “Are you allergic to any particular kind of cheese?” she asks them. Apparently they are now reordering their dinners. “No, any kind of cheese is fine. Any cheese AT ALL,” says the woman. Although I can’t see her, I can hear her teeth gritting.
The bartender has white hair cut short, glasses, and a mild expression. Black dress shirt, red tie, pens in the breast pocket. He looks like an accountant pretending to be a bartender. Otherwise, there’s a lot of denim in here. As my wine arrives, I hear, at the bar, “Ya gotta work tomorrow? “ “Yeah.”
By the time I leave the hotel on Monday morning, a two-inch gold Christmas tree has been placed on the table that sits near the elevator, and a large, decorated Christmas tree has appeared in the otherwise empty lobby. The handprint at the top of the elevator door, however, is still there.
