Hotel Check Out Quotes

Mirrors on the ceiling, The pink champagne on ice And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device' And in the master's chambers, They gathered for the feast They stab it with their steely knives, But they just can't kill the beast Last thing I remember, I was Running for the door I had to find the passage back To the place I was before 'Relax,' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive. You can check out any time you like, But you can never leave ...

Horror Hotel, as wraith called Shade's house. "Vampires, demons, and werewolves check in... and then they make out, and-

Life is funny like that; just about the time you’re able to fully appreciate the accommodations, you’re checking out of the hotel.

I'm starving. When we check into our hotel, let's ask the desk clerk where we can find one of those vast pizzas." "What are you talking about?" "Your guidebook says Florence is a city of vast pizzas. Look it up yourself." "Those are vast piazzas, not pizzas! It means public squares!" Dan's face fell. "Oh." Amy sighed. "I honestly thought the clue hunt took the dweeb out of you. No such luck.

You can check out any time but you can never leave.

Sometimes I felt that growing up and being a girl was about learning to be afraid. Not paranoid, exactly, but always alert and aware, like checking out the exits in the movie theatre or the fire escape in a hotel. You came to know, in a way you hadn't as a kid, that the body you inhabited was vulnerable, imperfectly fortified. On TV, in the papers, in books and movies, it isn't ever men being raped or kidnapped or bludgeoned or dismembered or burned with acid. But in stories and crime shows and TV series and movies and in life too, it's going on all the time, all around you. So you learn, in your mind, that your body needs to be protected. It's both precious and totally dispensable, depending on whom you encounter.

Douglas Ainslie: Look. Can you hear yourself? Can you? Do you have any idea what a terrible person you have become? All you give out is this endless negativity, a refusal to see any kind of light and joy, even when it's staring you in the face, and a desperate need to squash any sign of happiness in me or... or... or... anyone else. It's a wonder that I don't fling myself at the first kind word or gesture that comes my way, but I don't, ou... ou... ou... out of some sense of dried-up loyalty and respect, neither of which I ever bloody get in return. Jean, his wife: [long pause] I checked my emails. There's one from Laura.

Andrew's bare feet were silent against the carpet, but Neil saw a blur of colors on the fogged-up mirror and turned. Andrew studied his chest with a bored look, but the fingers he pressed to Neil's scars were a heavy and lingering weight. Neil waited to see if he had anything to say, but Andrew hadn't spoken to anyone since they checked out of the hotel in Baltimore. Neil doubted the others had noticed, since Andrew rarely talked to even Kevin or Nicky now that he was sober, but Neil wasn't used to the silent treatment. "Hey," Neil said, just to make Andrew look up at him. Neil leaned in to kiss him, needing to know if Andrew would lean away or push him back. Instead Andrew opened his mouth to Neil without hesitation and slid his hand up Neil's chest to his throat.

Almost all of our relationships begin and most of them continue as forms of mutual exploitation, a mental or physical barter, to be terminated when one or both partners run out of goods. But if the seed of a genuine disinterested love, which is often present, is ever to develop, it is essential that we pretend to ourselves and to others that it is stronger and more developed than it is, that we are less selfish than we are. Hence the social havoc wrought by the paranoid to whom the thought of indifference is so intolerable that he divides others into two classes, those who love him for himself alone and those who hate him for the same reason. Do a paranoid a favor, like paying his hotel bill in a foreign city when his monthly check has not yet arrived, and he will take this as an expression of personal affection – the thought that you might have done it from a general sense of duty towards a fellow countryman in distress will never occur to him. So back he comes for more until your patience is exhausted, there is a row, and he departs convinced that you are his personal enemy. In this he is right to the extent that it is difficult not to hate a person who reveals to you so clearly how little you love others.

None of us know when we're checking out - life isnt that kind of hotel

on the continent I'm soft. I dream too. I let myself dream. I dream of being famous. I dream of walking the streets of London and Paris. I dream of sitting in cafes drinking fine wines and taking a taxi back to a good hotel. I dream of meeting beautiful ladies in the hall and turning them away because I have a sonnet in mind that I want to write before sunrise. at sunrise I will be asleep and there will be a strange cat curled up on the windowsill. I think we all feel like this now and then. I'd even like to visit Andernach, Germany, the place where I began, then I'd like to fly on to Moscow to check out their mass transit system so I'd have something faintly lewd to whisper into the ear of the mayor of Los Angeles upon to my return to this fucking place. it could happen. I'm ready. I've watched snails crawl over ten foot walls and vanish. you mustn't confuse this with ambition. I would be able to laugh at my good turn of the cards - and I won't forget you. I'll send postcards and snapshots, and the finished sonnet.

He sent Eliza a small smile before turning to Lawrence. "What say you and I return to the hotel for a bit? I need to check on my daughter, and you need some time away from my sister." Not giving Lawrence an opportunity to reply, Grayson took him by the arm and hurried him out of the room. It was lovely to have a big brother again.

It’s public knowledge. It’s not my problem you just found out,” his mother is saying, pacing double-time down a West Wing corridor. “You mean to tell me,” Alex half shouts, jogging to keep up, “every Thanksgiving, those stupid turkeys have been staying in a luxury suite at the Willard on the taxpayers’ dime?” “Yes, Alex, they do—” “Gross government waste!” “—and there are two forty-pound turkeys named Cornbread and Stuffing in a motorcade on Pennsylvania Avenue right now. There is no time to reallocate the turkeys.” Without missing a beat, he blurts out, “Bring them to the house.” “Where? Are you hiding a turkey habitat up your ass, son? Where, in our historically protected house, am I going to put a couple of turkeys until I pardon them tomorrow?” “Put them in my room. I don’t care.” She outright laughs. “No.” “How is it different from a hotel room? Put the turkeys in my room, Mom.” “I’m not putting the turkeys in your room.” “Put the turkeys in my room.” “No.” “Put them in my room, put them in my room, put them in my room—” That night, as Alex stares into the cold, pitiless eyes of a prehistoric beast of prey, he has a few regrets. THEY KNOW, he texts Henry. THEY KNOW I HAVE ROBBED THEM OF FIVE-STAR ACCOMMODATIONS TO SIT IN A CAGE IN MY ROOM, AND THE MINUTE I TURN MY BACK THEY ARE GOING TO FEAST ON MY FLESH. Cornbread stares emptily back at him from inside a huge crate next to Alex’s couch. A farm vet comes by once every few hours to check on them. Alex keeps asking if she can detect a lust for blood. From the en suite, Stuffing releases another ominous gobble.

Our Society, which seems so sturdily built out of concrete and custom, is just a temporary resting place, a hotel our civilization checked into a couple hundred years ago and must one day check out of. It's an inevitability tourists can't help but realize when visiting Mayan ruins, Egyptian ruins, Roman ruins. How long will it be before someone is visiting American ruins?

After checking into the Hotel Monaco in downtown Seattle, Dana walked to Yesler Way, a steep street known as Skid Road in the 1850s, when the area was teeming with trees and a chute was used to skid logs to Henry Yesler’s sawmill. When Seattle’s city center moved north, the area became a dilapidated haven for drunks and derelicts and went from being called Skid Road to Skid Row, a term eventually used all over America to refer to a down-and-out section of a town or city.

Julie went to her hotel room window to check that the Campo, the central square of Siena, Italy, was still out there.

Your homeland is not a hotel you can check out of if the service is bad’.

She pulls out her calendar. “Where’s the wedding?” “The Four Seasons.” “The hotel? Or Total Landscaping?” I snort. “Don’t pretend I didn’t double-check ten times.

It turned out plant collecting was a solitary occupation. In the past Robert had enjoyed being alone, or so he thought. Actually he had rarely been alone for long: working in hotels, in stables, on ranches and farms, and as a miner, he had always been around others. Now, out in the woods or up in the hills or out on the flat central plain, he could go for days without speaking to anyone. His throat seemed to close up and he had to keep clearing it, singing songs aloud or reciting the Latin names of plants, just to check that he still had a voice. 'Araucaria imbricata. Sequoia sempervirens. Pinus lambertiana. Abies magnifica'. He was surprised at how much he missed people..

One last dance. We’re both quiet. It’s not over yet. We still have the whole summer ahead. But high school, the two of us here together, Lara Jean and Peter as we are today, that part is done. We’ll never be here exactly like this again. I’m wondering if he’s feeling sad too, and then he whispers, “Check out Gabe over there trying to casually rest his hand on Keisha’s butt.” He turns me slightly so I can see. Gabe’s hand is indeed hovering at Keisha Wood’s lower back/butt area, like an indecisive butterfly looking for a landing spot. I giggle. This is why I like Peter so much. He sees things I don’t see. “I know what our song should be,” he says. “What?” And then, like magic, Al Green’s voice fills the hotel ballroom. “Let’s Stay Together.” “You made them play this,” I accuse. I’m tearing up a little bit. He grins. “It’s fate.” Whatever you want to do…is all right with me-ee-ee. Peter takes my hand and puts it on his heart. “Let’s, let’s stay together,” he sings. His voice is clear and true, everything I love about him.

We will need to stay over two nights in a hotel on our trip home.” Momentarily alarmed, I glanced at Ren. “Okay. Umm, I was thinking that maybe this time if you don’t mind, we could check out one of those bigger hotels. You know, something that has more people around. With elevators and rooms that lock. Or even better, a nice high-rise hotel in a big city. Far, far, far away from the jungle?” Mr. Kadam chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.” I graced Mr. Kadam with a beatific smile. “Good! Could we please go now? I can’t wait to take a shower.” I opened the door to the passenger side then turned and hissed in a whisper aimed at Ren, “In my nice, upper-floor, inaccessible-to-tigers hotel room.” He just looked at me with his innocent, blue-eyed tiger face again. I smiled wickedly at him and hopped in the Jeep, slamming the door behind me. My tiger just calmly trotted over to the back where Mr. Kadam was loading the last of his supplies and leapt up into the back seat. He leaned in the front, and before I could push him away, he gave me a big, wet, slobbery tiger kiss right on my face. I sputtered, “Ren! That is so disgusting!” I used my T-shirt to swipe the tiger saliva from my nose and cheek and turned to yell at him some more. He was already lying down in the back seat with his mouth hanging open, as if he were laughing. Before I could really lay into him, Mr. Kadam, who was the happiest I’d ever seen him, got into the Jeep, and we started the bumpy journey back to a civilized road. Mr. Kadam wanted to ask me questions. I knew he was itching for information, but I was still fuming at Ren, so I lied. I asked him if he could hold off for a while so I could sleep. I yawned big for dramatic effect, and he immediately agreed to let me have some peace, which made me feel guilty. I really liked Mr. Kadam, and I hated lying to people. I excused my actions by mentally blaming Ren for this uncharacteristic behavior. Convincing myself that it was his fault was easy. I turned to the side and closed my eyes. I slept for a while, and when I woke up, Mr. Kadam handed me a soda, a sandwich, and a banana. I raised my eyebrow at the banana and thought of several good monkey jokes I could annoy Ren with, but I kept quiet for Mr. Kadam’s sake.

I guess you’ll just have to get used to having a police car outside the grocery store, the gym, and wherever it is you go for lunch with your friends,” Jack lectured. “And this goes without saying: you need to be careful. The police surveillance is a precautionary measure, but they can’t be everywhere. You should stick to familiar surroundings, and be vigilant and alert at all times.” “I got it. No walking through dark alleys while talking on my cell phone, no running at night with my iPod, no checking out suspicious noises in the basement.” “I seriously hope you’re not doing any of those things anyway.” “Of course not.” Jack pinned her with his gaze. She shifted against the counter. “Okay, maybe, sometimes, I’ve been known to listen to a Black Eyed Peas song or two while running at night. They get me moving after a long day at work.” Jack seemed wholly unimpressed with this excuse. “Well, you and the Peas better get used to running indoors on a treadmill.” Conscious of Wilkins’s presence, and the fact that he was watching her and Jack with what appeared to be amusement, Cameron bit back her retort. Thirty thousand hotel rooms in the city of Chicago and she picked the one that would lead her back to him.

When Michael Crichton approached the end of a novel (so I’ve read), he used to start getting up earlier and earlier in the morning. He was desperate to keep his mojo going. He’d get up at six, then five, then three-thirty and two-thirty, till he was driving his wife insane. Finally he had to move out of the house. He checked into a hotel (the Kona Village, which ain’t so bad) and worked around the clock till he’d finished the book. Michael Crichton was a pro. He knew that Resistance was strongest at the finish. He

Money drives the Mercedes called Manhattan. Individuality and eccentricity take the bus. Gentrification, boutique hotels, prefab Olive Gardens and Home Depots are the coils tightening around the Chelsea. No more getting on bended knee to beg Stanley Bard to give you a room. In fact, the new owner, busy with intensive renovations, isn’t admitting anyone into the hotel. No doubt, if he does, it’ll be the moneyed elite, standing surrounded by their Louis Vuitton bags, checking in while dialing their iPhones. But that’s another story.

Rayna does not get sick on planes. Also, Rayna does not stop talking on planes. By the time we land at Okaloosa Regional Airport, I’m wondering if I’ve spoken as many words in my entire life as she did on the plane. With no layovers, it was the longest forty-five minutes of my whole freaking existence. I can tell Rachel’s nerves are also fringed. She orders an SUV limo-Rachel never does anything small-to pick us up and insists that Rayna try the complimentary champagne. I’m fairly certain it’s the first alcoholic beverage Rayna’s ever had, and by the time we reach the hotel on the beach, I’m all the way certain. As Rayna snores in the seat across from me, Rachel checks us into the hotel and has our bags taken to our room. “Do you want to head over to the Gulfarium now?” she asks. “Or, uh, rest up a bit and wait for Rayna to wake up?” This is an important decision. Personally, I’m not tired at all and would love to see a liquored-up Rayna negotiate the stairs at the Gulfarium. But I’d feel a certain guilt if she hit her hard head on a wooden rail or something and then we’d have to pay the Gulfarium for the damages her thick skull would surely cause. Plus, I’d have to suffer a reproving look from Dr. Milligan, which might actually hurt my feelings because he reminds me a bit of my dad. So I decide to do the right thing. “Let’s rest for a while and let her snap out of it. I’ll call Dr. Milligan and let him know we’ve checked in.” Two hours later, Sleeping Beast wakes up and we head to see Dr. Milligan. Rayna is particularly grouchy when hungover-can you even get hungover from drinking champagne?-so she’s not terribly inclined to be nice to the security guard who lets us in. She mutters something under her breath-thank God she doesn’t have a real voice-and pushes past him like the spoiled Royalty she is. I’m just about aggravated beyond redemption-until we see Dr. Milligan in a new exhibit of stingrays. He coos and murmurs as if they’re a litter of puppies in the tank begging to play with him. When he notices our arrival he smiles, and it feels like a coconut slushy on a sweltering day and it almost makes up for the crap I’ve been put through these past few days.

In one slick move, he shoves his phone in his pocket and grabs me so we’re in front of the cabinet. His hand slides around the back of my neck, and before I can panic, he kisses me hard. Momentarily caught off guard, I just throw my arms around his neck and press my body against his. His kiss deepens until our tongues are twisting together, and I’m reminded of just how great a kisser he is. The lights flicker on, and Grayson pulls away from me with a grunt. I’m so flustered, it takes me a few seconds to collect myself enough to see a man wearing a suit and a hotel name badge eyeing us. “Excuse me, Mr. Cole, I’m afraid this office is off-limits for guests,” he says. I glance at Grayson and have to stop myself from laughing at the shade of my lipstick he’s now wearing. Grayson doesn’t miss a beat; he just grabs my hand and tugs me across the room. “I won’t mention this if you don’t,” he says as we pass by the hotel porter. I try for a sheepish smile as we walk past him. “Sorry,” I mouth. As we make it out to the hallway, a half-smothered giggle escapes before I can stop it. “You should probably go to the men’s room before you go back to the party.” A smile creases his lipstick-smeared mouth before he swipes his hand over it. “Yeah. This isn’t really my shade.” I snort a laugh and try to laugh off the kiss. But as I head back to the party, I’m well aware that kiss has only stirred a desire for another one. Not only that but as I pull my mirror out to check my own face, I realize something I didn’t in the heat of the moment. ​There was nothing fake about that kiss.

The male staff all wore gorgeous colored loin cloths that always seem to be about to fall off they’re wonderful hips. Their upper bodies were tanned sculpted and naked. The female staff wore short shorts and silky flowing tops that almost but didn’t expose their young easy breasts. I noticed we only ever encountered male staff, and the men walking through the lobby were always greeted by the female staff. Very ingenious, as Rebecca said later - if we had ticked Lesbians on the form I wonder what would have happened? -There was a place to tick for Lesbians, I said ? -Sexual Persuasion- it was on all the forms -Really. And, how many options were there? -You’re getting the picture, said Jillian. This was not your basic check in procedure as at say a Best Western. Our Doormen/Security Guards , held out our chairs for us to let us sit at the elegant ornate table. Then they poured us tea, and placed before each of us a small bowl of tropical fruit, cut into bite size pieces. Wonderful! Almost immediately a check in person came and sat opposite us at the desk. Again a wonderful example of Island Male talent. (in my mind anyway) We signed some papers, and were each handed an immense wallet of information passes, electronic keys, electronic ID’s we would wear to allow us to move through the park and its ‘worlds’ and a small flash drive I looked at it as he handed it to me, and given the mindset of the Hotel and the murals and the whole ambiance of the place, I was thinking it might be a very small dildo for, some exotic move I was unaware of. -What’s this? I asked him -Your Hotel and Theme Park Guide I looked at it again, huh, so not a dildo.

not if Shannon is over her illness.  Come, Dytyna.  We discuss your performance now." "When will we know if I'll be competing?" "We will not know until Monday when we check in at the Olympic arena.  Coach Taylor will know then." "I'm going back to the hotel to call your father, Kerri.  We plan on meeting for lunch then will head on over to the hockey arena.  Two kids in the Olympics!  Whoa.  I'll see you later."  She leaned down and gave Kerri a hug before she kissed her forehead.  "Stay out of trouble." "I can hardly get into any trouble in the Olympic village, Mom."  At almost seventeen, Kerri was still able to feel embarrassed at receiving her mother's counsel, and she thought that her mother's advice was unfounded.  The village was closed off, after all, from the rest of Turin and from the fray of the crowds that converged upon the venues.  She watched her mother walk away before she stood up and adjusted the strap

The Late Night Traveler It was late and a traveler was looking for a room to spend the night.  He had stopped at every hotel and motel and there were no rooms available. At the far edge of town, he spotted one last motel.  It was his only hope. Unfortunately, the traveler was told by the clerk at this motel they had no rooms available also. “What am I to do?”  the traveler asked.  “Please, please you have to help me.  I have tried all the other places and there are no rooms and you are my last resort.”  ‘Well I do have a double room with only one occupant in it.  He stays here all the time. He probably won’t mind you staying in there and splitting the cost.  But I have to tell you, he snores very loud.  You may not get much sleep.” “Sounds great,” the traveler said and he took the room. The next morning when he was checking out, the clerk asked how he slept. “I slept very well, thank you,” the traveler said. “How were you able to sleep with all the snoring?” the clerk asked. “It wasn’t a problem at all,” the man said.  “When I got to the room I got undressed, walked over, gave him a little kiss on the cheek and said ‘goodnight,’ and he sat up all night watching me.

Recently, I was in New York with most of the Robertson family promoting the season-four premiere of Duck Dynasty. We were staying at the Trump International Hotel, which is a really nice place near Central Park. I was already uncomfortable being in the big city. I don’t like traffic or concrete, and there are a lot of both in New York. After we checked in, we gathered downstairs to go to a Broadway musical show. I know it might seem bizarre for me to be going to a musical, but my very attractive wife can be mightily persuasive, especially when I have nothing else to do. As we were waiting or the others in the lobby, I asked a doorman if there was a nearby bathroom. He gave me directions to the nearest restroom, which included a walk through the hotel restaurant. As I entered the restaurant, a well-dressed staffer offered his assistance. I informed him I was only going to the restroom. But he very nicely continued to offer assistance and took the role of my escort, which I thought was quite courteous and professional. At his direction, we took a quick left turn and walked out of the hotel. Befuddled, I asked him, “Where is the bathroom?” He painted down the street or maybe toward Central Park and said, “Good luck to you, sir. Have a nice day.” I circled back around to the main entrance of the hotel, where I found Missy, who had witnessed the entire episode. “I thought you had to go to the bathroom,” she said. I laughed and told her I had been escorted out of the hotel because of the way I looked. It was no big deal to us, and I laughed about the incident later that night with my family over dinner. I shared the story the next day with Kelly Ripa and Michael Strahan on Live! with Kelly and Michael because I thought it was funny. Well, the story went viral and was all over the news and Internet the next few days. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing and various media outlets were trying to contact me. I’d jokingly labeled the incident “facial profiling” because in my mind that’s exactly what it was. People were surprised that it didn’t bother me, but my family and I have endured those kinds of things our entire lives. I figured the hotel employee was only trying to protect other hotel guests. The incident culminated with a call from Donald Trump’s office. They offered an apology for any inconvenience. I assured them that no apology was needed, and I asked them not to punish my courteous escort.

Hey, Rachel, it's Emma. Tell Toraf he's off the hook for tonight. I can't make it over there for practice today. Maybe I'll see him tomorrow." NOT. I don't need a babysitter. Galen needs to get it through his thicker-than-most head that I'm not one of his royal subjects. Besides, Toraf earned a place on my equivalent-to-zoo-dirt list, forcing Rayna to marry him and all. After a few minutes, Rachel makes good on Galen's promise. When I answer the phone, she says, "Hey there, cutie pie. You're not feeling bad again, are you?" "No, I'm fine. Just a little sore from yesterday, I guess. But Mom had to take my car to work, so I don't have a way to get over there." Contemplation hovers in the silence that follows. I'm surprised when she doesn't offer to come get me. Maybe she doesn't like me as much as she lets on. "Give me a call tomorrow, okay? Galen wants me to check in with you." "That's so sweet of him," I drawl. She chuckles. "Give the guy a break. His intentions are good. He hasn't figured out how to handle you yet." "I don't need to be handled." "Apparently, he thinks you do. And until he doesn't, I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me." I try not to sound curt when I say, "Do you always do what he says?" "Not always." "Yeah, right." "Emma, if I always did what I'm told, you'd be locked in a hotel room somewhere while I secured us a private jet to a place of Galen's choosing. Now get some rest. I'll be expecting your call tomorrow.

There’s no efficient way to kill yourself with a dressmaker’s pin (I wouldn’t call contracting gangrene an efficient way to kill yourself) – I puzzled over it for a long time, seeing as they’d left the pins there, but it’s just not possible. Useful for picking locks though. I so loved the burglary lessons we got when we were training. Didn’t so much enjoy the bleak aftermath of my unsuccessful attempt to put them to use – very good at picking locks but not so good at getting out of the building. Our prison cells are only hotel bedrooms, but we are guarded like royalty. And also, there are dogs. After that episode with the pins, they had a good go at making sure I wouldn’t be able to walk if I did manage to get out – don’t know where you pick up the skills for disabling a person without actually breaking her legs, Nazi School of Assault and Battery? Like everything else it wasn’t permanent damage, nothing left this week but the bruises, and they check me carefully now for stray bits of metal. I got caught yesterday trying to hide a pen nib in my hair (I didn’t have a plan for it, but you never know). Oh – often I forget I am not writing this for myself, and then it’s too late to scratch it out. The evil Engel always snatches everything away from me and raises an alarm if she sees me trying to retract anything. Yesterday I tried ripping off the bottom of the page and eating it, but she got to it first. (It was when I realised I had thoughtlessly mentioned the factory at Swinley. It is refreshing sometimes to fight with her. She has the advantage of freedom, but I am a lot more imaginative. Also I am willing to use my teeth which she is squeamish about.) Where was I? Hauptsturmführer von Linden has taken away everything I wrote yesterday. It is your own fault, you cold and soulless Jerry bastard, if I repeat myself.

MATHEMATICAL MIRACLE Some years ago, I heard a story which has been making the rounds in Midwest A.A. circles for years. I don’t have any names to back up this story, but I have heard it from many sources, and the circumstances sound believable. A man in a small Wisconsin city had been on the program for about three years and had enjoyed contented sobriety through that period. Then bad luck began to hit him in bunches. The firm for which he had worked for some fifteen years was sold; his particular job was phased out of existence, and the plant moved to another city. For several months, he struggled along at odd jobs while looking for a company that needed his specialized experience. Then another blow hit him. His wife was forced to enter a hospital for major surgery, and his company insurance had expired. At this point he cracked, and decided to go on an all-out binge. He didn’t want to stage this in the small city, where everyone knew his sobriety record. So he went to Chicago, checked in at a North Side hotel, and set forth on his project. It was Friday night, and the bars were filled with a swinging crowd. But he was in no mood for swinging—he just wanted to get quietly, miserably drunk. Finally, he found a basement bar on a quiet side street, practically deserted. He sat down on a bar stool and ordered a double bourbon on the rocks. The bartender said, “Yes, sir,” and reached for a bottle. Then the bartender stopped in his tracks, took a long, hard look at the customer, leaned over the bar, and said in a low tone, “I was in Milwaukee about four months ago, and one night I attended an open meeting. You were on the speaking platform, and you gave one of the finest A.A. talks I ever heard.” The bartender turned and walked to the end of the bar. For a few minutes, the customer sat there—probably in a state of shock. Then he picked his money off the bar with trembling hands and walked out, all desire for a drink drained out of him. It is estimated that there are about 8,000 saloons in Chicago, employing some 25,000 bartenders. This man had entered the one saloon in 8,000 where he would encounter the one man in 25,000 who knew that he was a member of A.A. and didn’t belong there. Chicago, Illinois

When they check you in at this hotel, one of the bellhops is obliged to bend you over and take a look up your works-but there are a lot of works, and, not to put too fine a point on it, a man who is really determined can get a fairly large item quite a ways up them-far enough to be out of sight, unless the bellhop you happen to draw is in the mood to pull on a rubber glove and go prospecting.

We took a cab to the hotel. We looked at each other on the way but neither of us spoke. I checked us in, and when we got to the room, we left the lights off. It seemed natural that we should walk over to the enormous windows, where we watched the urban mass of Shinjuku twinkling in the violet light around us. I looked out at the city from my lofty perch and thought of all the events that had led to this precise instant, this moment I had imagined and ridiculously longed for so many times and that I was now trying to savor even as I felt it slipping irrevocably away. At some point I felt her looking at me. I turned and reached out, tracing the outline of her face and neck with the back of my fingers, trying to burn all the details into my mind, wanting to have them with me later when she would be gone.

couldn’t go home, she couldn’t go to a friend. Getting cash and checking into a hotel would take care of the immediate problem, but not the long-term one. Ultimately, she needed to get out of town, to get as far out of Atlanta as she possibly could at the moment. Her brow furrowed. But where could she possibly— Suddenly a phrase emblazoned on a nearby awning snagged her attention. Are you ready for the time of your

So foolish was I; and ignorant…. —Psalm 73:22 (KJV) LORNE GREENE, ACTOR I was a very new, very inexperienced writer, just arrived in California on my first Guideposts assignment. I was checking into my hotel when my editor phoned with another story lead: “I’ve got you an interview with Lorne Greene!” Lorne Greene? I’d never heard of him, but from the excitement in the editor’s voice, I knew it must be someone famous. And rather than expose my ignorance, I said, “Great!” “He’ll meet you on the Bonanza set.” He gave me a TV studio address. We didn’t yet own a TV, but I’d read about the new quiz shows offering big prizes. Bonanza, I decided, must be one of those. I’d interview Mr. Greene about competitiveness! I spent two hours writing out a long list of questions. The next day I stood in the wings of the soundstage, staring at a log cabin, a covered wagon, a backdrop of Ponderosa pines…I crumpled my sheet of questions. We sat at a table while I fumbled for a question. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat, smiling brown eyes met mine. He must have perceived immediately that a novice writer had asked a busy man for his time and then arrived unprepared. He took pity on my floundering efforts. “I was a radio interviewer in Canada before I got into acting,” he said. “I think I have a story you’ll like.” No thanks to me, I flew home with a wonderful piece. And a new petition for my daily prayers: Father, grant me the grace to say, “I don’t know.” —Elizabeth Sherrill Digging Deeper: Prv 22:4; Jas 4:6

There is a boat ride at Epcot across the World Showcase Lagoon and some could argue this is an attraction. However, there is a boat ride from the International Gateway at Epcot that goes all the way to Disney’s Hollywood Studios. The ride consists of stops at Epcot, Disney’s Boardwalk, Yacht and Beach Club, Swan and Dolphin Hotel, and Disney’s Hollywood Studios. It’s a lovely cruise that connects the two theme parks. Most folks who are not staying in the resorts have no idea this 30-minute ride even exists. It is a fun way to see the different parts of the resort and it gives everyone an idea of how close Epcot and Disney’s Hollywood Studios really is (if you don’t have to drive.) For those adventurous types, there is a walkway too and along the way you could check out the interesting architecture of the buildings.

Feel free to check out the hotel and talk to the staff," he said slipping out of bed. "And I'm happy to give you an up-close look at what we're doing." When she didn't answer, he glanced over his shoulder. Then cleared his throat. Her attention jumped from his ass to his face. "Sorry, what did you say/" "I said---" She sat up, letting the sheet fall to her waist. And damn if she wasn't the most gorgeous thing with her creamy skin, pert breasts, and mussed hair. He moaned like a guy totally whipped and stalked back to the bed where he climbed on top of her. "Connor." She giggled and wiggled beneath him. Her arms went around his neck. "What are you doing?" "Forgetting the time." He kissed her and didn't leave until they'd both had their fill.

Relax, said the night man, We are programmed to receive. You can check-out any time you like, But you can never leave!

I wavered behind my terminal, bewildered, bracing myself on the desk at 2:00 a.m., splashing water on my face at 3:00 a.m., eating a chocolate bar and drinking a Red Bull at 4:00 a.m., popping into the back office to slap myself hard in the face at 5:00 a.m., greeting the early-riser guests and beginning to check out rooms at 6:00 a.m., my mouth tasting like the smell coming from the wilting and unchanged flower display at 6:05 a.m., counting the minutes at 6:06 a.m., feeling as if I’ve ruined my whole life at 6:21 a.m., dreaming about dreaming at 6:32 a.m., squinting with hatred at the sun sliding into the lobby at 6:43 a.m., thinking about absolutely nothing, my head sort of rolling around, eyes twitching and staring down the hallway at 6:51 a.m., at the end of which, next to the elevators, is the door that leads to the employee locker rooms, where my relief, hopefully, is on time and changing into uniform, then stumbling downstairs at 7:01

His luggage was in the car. He checked out of his hotel around 3:30, but the only signs of this ‘outfit’ he’d bought were a few feathers and some kind of dried up rodent on a string.” “You mean the dried weasel?

I shrugged. “Staying in a hotel is a bit like life. At some stage you have to check out.” “Oh,

Checking myself out in my hotel-room mirror, I decided to wear the long black abaya inside Kandahar, and the burqa when we traveled in the car outside the city. At least the hotel room was nicer than my first time in Kandahar. The TV had about two hundred channels, most of them porn. I checked the room computer’s Internet history—more porn. That was a good sign, I supposed. Despite the Taliban comeback, Kandahar was still hung up on sex.

You remember that old cockroach commercial? You check in, but you can't check out." "I think you mean the Hotel California." "I hate The Eagles." "Everyone does, Nicki.

26 In which we say goodbye to Ophelia Jane Worthington-Whittard After the hospital, where Mr. Whittard had his arm bandaged, they went in a taxi to the hotel. They drove through the streets of the city, where it no longer snowed. Alice folded all the clothes the museum curator had given her and left them neatly on her bed. She re-dressed herself, the way she had always dressed, in jeans and a T-shirt. She applied blood-red lipstick, which was way too grown-up for her. The sun was just up. It shone everywhere on the snow and on the glistening white trees and on all the windows. Behind each window there were people waking up to Christmas Day. They would no doubt open their presents, eat, and ice-skate. They would not set a time limit; they would skate into the night, and their cheeks would burn bright, and they would smile. Somewhere a man would take a violin out and begin to play. At the airport the family’s three suitcases were checked and the large, unusually shaped package was checked as well. The unusually shaped package went through the X-ray machine, and security looked very surprised until Ophelia’s father produced his card, which read: MALCOLM WHITTARD LEADING INTERNATIONAL EXPERT ON SWORDS They took their seats and rested, waiting for takeoff. Ophelia felt for Alice’s hand, and Alice squeezed in return until they were high in the air. Ophelia looked at her watch. They would be home within a few hours. She went to calculate … and stopped. Be brave, her mother whispered in her ear, and then was gone. From the airplane window Ophelia could see the city below. All the small and winding gray cobblestone streets, all the shining silver buildings and bridges, the museum, getting smaller and smaller until it was lost. She caught just a glimpse of the vast and fabled sea before the clouds covered this world. In that tiny moment she fancied she saw blue water, perfect blue water, the whitecaps breaking. Then that view was gone, swallowed up by the whitest clouds she’d ever seen. Ophelia Jane Worthington-Whittard, brave, curious girl, closed her eyes and smiled. THE END.

Well, I'll tell yer now, it's going t' be even better for talkin' t' me! Get your arse down tut station. I'd gor meself, but I'm sending you as a proxy. Sort it out at Oxford Street for me, will yer, eh? They're not doin' the bloody figures, an' I for one want to know what the eck's goin' on! You'll be writin' me a full report. And if they're pissing about, sack 'em, right? Get your arse on the next bloody train, eh! I want you there as soon as possible. Get yourself checked in tut hotel when you get there. You can phone that man, Bart is it, whatsisname, and let 'im knor, eh?.....What d'yer say? You'll do it for me? Grand! Get your arse down that station, now! The phone clicked off

legit, a convertible that will take me anywhere—it’s almost overwhelming. But I am jolted back to life when a tall, tanned brunette strolls through the lobby. Her top is what’s left of a string bikini and covers almost nothing. Her bottom is a sheer skirt that covers even less. I hand over a Visa card for the charges. I could also use either cash or a prepaid credit card, but since the Fibbies know where I’m staying, there’s no need to be deceptive. I’m sure the Miami office has been notified, and there’s probably a set of eyes not too far away. If I were really paranoid, I could believe that the FBI has already been in my room and perhaps hidden a bug or two. I get to my room, see no bugs or spooks, take a quick shower, and change into shorts and sandals. I go to the bar to check out the talent. I eat alone in the hotel café and catch the eye of a fortyish woman who is dining with what appears to be a female friend. Later, back in the bar, I see her again and we introduce ourselves. Eva, from Puerto Rico. We’re having a drink when the band starts. Eva wants to dance, and though it’s been years, I hit the floor with all the energy I have. Around midnight, Eva and I make it to my room, where we immediately undress and hop into bed. I almost pray the FBI has the room wired

Where was he staying?” Rice said, “We checked at El Tovar, Bright Angel, Thunderbird, and the rest of the possible places. He wasn’t booked at any of them.” “He had to stay somewhere.” “It could have been at one of the campgrounds, either inside the park or nearby,” noted Lambert. “Okay, he took the train up here. But if he came from DC he probably first flew into Sky Harbor. He might have stayed somewhere there until he went to Williams, Arizona. That’s where the train leaves from, right?” Lambert nodded. “There’s a hotel at the train depot. He might have stayed there.” “Have you made a search down here?” “We covered as much ground as we could. No trace so far. And we’re losing the light.” Pine took all this in. In the distance came the sharp bark of a coyote followed by the echoing rattle of a snake. There might be a standoff going on out there between predators as the lights of nature grew dim, thought Pine. The muscular walls of the canyon held a complex series of fragile ecosystems. It was the human factor that had intruded here. Nature always seemed to get on all right until people showed up. She turned her head to the left, where a long way away

Valkyrie of Odin, I’d healed his mind to keep him from going insane. Now his mortal eyes were permanently opened. Rather than living in blissful ignorance, he could see the earth giants that occasionally strolled down Commonwealth Avenue, the sea serpents that frolicked in the Charles River, and the Valkyries that flew overhead, bringing souls of fallen heroes to check in at the Hotel Valhalla. He could even see our huge Viking warship that looked like a heavily armed banana. ‘We’ll be careful,’ I told him. ‘Besides, nobody would dare attack this ship. It’s way too yellow.’ He mustered a faint smile. ‘That much is true.’ He reached behind him. From the hood of his car, he hefted a large green insulated pack – the kind Fadlan’s Falafel used for deliveries. ‘This is for you, Magnus. I hope you enjoy.’ The scent of fresh falafel wafted out. True, I’d eaten falafel just a few hours

Haunted Encounters television series, filmed before Elisa Lam’s death, says, “There’s a tremendous amount of fatalities here at the Cecil hotel. Someone has literally died in every room. In room 1121 there have been many reports of guests checked into this room feeling as if they’re being physically strangled – and checking out! The things that are down in this basement are extremely powerful – they’re watching us. The basement is coming alive around us. Something big moved over there!” Perhaps

I'm not going to Wichita,' Vladimir said, the word 'Wichita' rendered by his accent as the most foreign word imaginable in the English language. 'I’m going to live with Fran and it’s going to be all right. You’re going to make it all right.' But even as he was laying down the law, his hands were shaking to the point where it was hard to keep the shabby pay-phone receiver properly positioned between his mouth and ear. Teardrops were blurring the corners of his eyes and he felt the need to have Baobab hear him burst out in a series of long, convulsive sobs, Roberta-style. All he had wanted was twenty thousand lousy dollars. It wasn’t a million. It was how much Dr. Girshkin made on average from two of his nervous gold-toothed patients. 'Okay,' Baobab said. 'Here’s how we’re going to do it. These are the new rules. Memorize them or write them down. Do you have a pen? Hello? Okay, Rule One: you can’t visit anyone—friends, relatives, work, nothing. You can only call me from a pay phone and we can’t talk for more than three minutes.' He paused. Vladimir imagined him reading this from a little scrap of paper. Suddenly Baobab said, under his breath: 'Tree, nine-thirty, tomorrow.' 'The two of us can never meet in person,' he was saying loudly now. 'We will keep in touch only by phone. If you check into a hotel, make sure you pay cash. Never pay by credit card. Once more: Tree, nine-thirty, tomorrow.' Tree. Their Tree? The Tree? And nine-thirty? Did he mean in the morning? It was hard to imagine Baobab up at that unholy hour. 'Rule Five: I want you to keep moving at all times, or at least try to keep moving. Which brings us to…' But just as Rule Six was about to come over the transom, there was a tussle for the phone and Roberta came on the line in her favorite Bowery harlot voice, the kind that smelled like gin nine hundred miles away. 'Vladimir, dear, hi!' Well, at least someone was enjoying Vladimir’s downfall. 'Say, I was thinking, do you have any ties with the Russian underworld, honey?' Vladimir thought of hanging up, but the way things were going even Roberta’s voice was a distinctly human one. He thought of Mr. Rybakov’s son, the Groundhog. 'Prava,' he muttered, unable to articulate any further. An uptown train rumbled beneath him to underscore the underlying shakiness of his life. Two blocks downtown, a screaming professional was being tossed back and forth between two joyful muggers. 'Prava, how very now!' Roberta said. 'Laszlo’s thinking of opening up an Academy of Acting and the Plastic Arts there. Did you know that there are thirty thousand Americans in Prava? At least a half dozen certified Hemingways among them, wouldn’t you agree?' 'Thank you for your concern, Roberta. It’s touching. But right now I have other… There are problems. Besides, getting to Prava… What can I do?… There’s an old Russian sailor… An old lunatic… He needs to be naturalized.' There was a long pause at this point and Vladimir realized that in his haste he wasn’t making much sense. 'It’s a long story…' he began, 'but essentially… I need to… Oh God, what’s wrong with me?' 'Talk to me, you big bear!' Roberta encouraged him. 'Essentially, if I get this old lunatic his citizenship, he’ll set me up with his son in Prava.' 'Okay, then,' Roberta said. 'I definitely can’t get him his citizenship.' 'No,' Vladimir concurred. 'No, you can’t.' What was he doing talking to a sixteen-year-old? 'But,' Roberta said, 'I can get him the next best thing…

THE 1934 MAVERICK CAMPAIGN also marked Lyndon Johnson’s first involvement with one of the more pragmatic aspects of politics. Awakening early one morning a day or two before the election, in the big room in San Antonio’s Plaza Hotel that he shared with Johnson, L. E. Jones experienced an awakening of another sort. Johnson was sitting at a table in the center of the room—and on the table were stacks of five-dollar bills. “That big table was just covered with money—more money than I had ever seen,” Jones says. Jones never learned who had given the cash to Johnson—so secretive was his boss that he had not even known Johnson had it—but he saw what Johnson did with it. Mexican-American men would come into the room, one at a time. Each would tell Johnson a number—some, unable to speak English, would indicate the number by holding up fingers—and Johnson would count out that number of five-dollar bills, and hand them to him. “It was five dollars a vote,” Jones realized. “Lyndon was checking each name against lists someone had furnished him with. These Latin people would come in, and show how many eligible voters they had in the family, and Lyndon would pay them five dollars a vote.

You can check out any time you like / But you can never leave!

As the players left the Miramar Hotel to go home to their respective countries or states, Bobby simply refused to check out. Other players have been known to do the same thing. It’s like an actor remaining in character and refusing to leave his dressing room, or a writer refusing to leave his garret after finishing a book. The challenge is tearing oneself away from a venue that has been one’s creative home for so many hours, days, weeks, or months. Three weeks after everyone else had left, Bobby was still at the Miramar, just steps from the ocean, surrounded by gardens and palm trees, breathing in the pungent smell of eucalyptus. He swam and walked, and then often spent the rest of the day—and a good portion of the night—playing over all the games of the tournament, torturing himself over the mistakes he’d made. Someone finally pointed out to him that the Piatigorskys would no longer continue to pick up his hotel costs, so, reluctantly, he flew back home to Brooklyn.

February 2013 My Email to Andy (Part One)   My chance encounter with Max was both a blessing and an affliction. After I’d checked into the majestic lady, The Oriental, hunger hit my rumbling stomach. I needed to savour some authentic Thai food. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped out of the hotel’s door, I was confronted by the harsh reality of Bangkok’s civic life. As at Don Mueang International Airport, rows of local taxi drivers lined the hotel’s periphery, ready to debauch the first customer that ventured out without soliciting The Oriental’s private limo service.                Again, I found myself surrounded by a barrage of locals offering me the best bargain on transportation to my destination. Who should come to my rescue but the same driver that had deposited Max and me? In the foulest Thai vernacular he could master, he repulsed those who challenged him. The vultures scattered, allowing me to embark in his not-so-new sedan. ”Where you want go sir?” he asked. ”Take me to an excellent place for local food,” I replied. ”I take you to good place, sir,” he responded and sped off into the dark. The question of whether I wanted a sexy girl to accompany me during my Bangkok stay arose again. I refused his offer with politeness. The man rephrased his query: “You want boy? I take you to good boy-bar.” I shook my head, yet he continued to pester me for an answer. We bantered back and forth, I not revealing my sexual preference while he used every contrivance to solicit an answer. Instead of delivering me to the city’s hub, he headed in the opposite direction towards a suburb that had almost no street lights. Worrisome thoughts of robbery and murder had begun to plague me when the vehicle finally came to a halt at a two-storied house in the middle of nowhere.

Truly loving something can be articulated by the lyrics from the song ‘Hotel California’: ‘You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.’ Oblivious

It’s all out there, Roxanne. Every cup of coffee you buy, every Facebook post you make, every hotel you check into is all recorded on thousands of inter-related networks just waiting to have someone connect the dots.” “Yes,

What’s the first thing you do now before you visit a new restaurant for the first time or book a hotel room online? You probably ask a friend for a recommendation or you check out the reviews online. Now more than ever, the story your customers tell about you is a big part of your story. Word of mouth is accelerated and amplified. Trust is built digitally beyond the village. Reputations are built and lost in a moment. Opinions are no longer only shared one to one; they are broadcasted one to many, through digital channels. Those opinions live on as clues to your story. The cleanliness of your hotel bathrooms is no longer a secret. Guests’ unedited photos are displayed alongside a hotel brochure’s digital glossies. TripAdvisor ratings are proudly displayed by hotels and often say more about the standards guests can expect than do other, more established star ratings systems, such as the Forbes Travel Guide‘s ratings. Once-invisible brands and family-run hotels have had their businesses turned around by the stories their customers tell about them. “With 50 million reviews and counting, [TripAdvisor] is shaking the travel industry to its core.” —Nathan Labenz It turns out that people are more likely to trust the stories other people tell about you than to trust the well-lit Photoshopped images in your brochure. Reputation is how your idea and brand story are spread. A survey conducted by Chadwick Martin Bailey found that six in ten cruise customers said “they were less likely to book a cruise that received only one star.” There is no marketing more powerful than what one person says to another to recommend your brand. “Don’t waste money on expensive razors.” “Nice hotel; shame about the customer service.” In a world where online reputation can increase a hotel’s occupancy and revenue, trust has become a marketing metric. “[R]eputation has a real-world value.” —Rachel Botsman When we were looking to book a quiet, off-the-beaten-track hotel in Bali, the first place we looked wasn’t with the travel agents or booking.com. I jumped online and found that one of the area’s best-rated hotels on tripadvisor.com wasn’t a five-star resort but a modest family-run, three-star hotel that was punching well above its weight. This little fifteen-room hotel had more than 400 very positive reviews and had won a TripAdvisor Travellers Choice award. The reviews from the previous guests sealed the deal. The little hotel in Ubud was perfect. The reviews didn’t lie, and of course the place was fully booked with a steady stream of guests who knew where to look before taking a chance on a hotel room. Just a few years before, this $50-a-night hotel would have been buried amongst a slew of well-marketed five-star resorts. Today, thanks to a currency of trust, even tiny brands can thrive by doing the right thing and giving their customers a great story to tell.

“Sorry, I thought this room belonged to a red-headed girl. Is this her room?” He checks out the room number beside the door, and I broaden my stance. “What makes you think she’s here?” The guy winces. “I followed her.” A tremor runs through my body, and I have to keep from grabbing his throat and shoving him into the wall. Keep talking, asshole. I won’t have Echo pissed at me when I take a swing at this guy. I’ll allow him to bury himself first. “What do you want with her?” “Noah,” Echo whispers behind me and touches my bare back. “Did he say he followed me?” The guy pulls his hands out of his sagging jeans. “I know this is strange, but I want to talk to her.” “Noah?” Echo inches as if she’s going to peek out, and I slide in front of the door, holding the handle to keep her safely inside. This guy’s going to need a hell of a right hook to get to her. “You need to go,” I say. He rams both fists into his hair, and he’s got dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept. “Look, I know this is insane—” “You’re right—you’re fucking crazy. Guys knocking on hotel rooms of girls without being asked is sick.” I jerk my thumb for him to leave. “Serial killers belong at the next exit.”

It was another beautiful crisp, clear day, in what has always been considered picturesque Überlingen. The village was internationally known for its traditional beauty and was a popular vacation destination long before the war. As usual, there was just a hint of a breeze off the brilliantly blue lake and I could understand why so many Germans would come here for their urlaub or vacation. Having a little money left over from the last check sent by Mina, I found a nice room for the three of us, overlooking the lake at a classy resort hotel. For the next two days we lived quite comfortably in our new surroundings. In fact we even enjoyed a real hot bath, something that I had almost forgotten. As I soaked in the warm, sudsy water I could hear my children laughing and giggling in the next room, and longed for a time when the world would be at peace again. During the day we walked along the shore of the beautiful Bodensee, but in the back of my mind, I knew that this was nothing more than a horrible illusion and couldn’t last; besides I had to find work. In reality, the children and I would have to settle in somewhere so that we could find some sort of stability. It was also important that they enroll in a school again. That “somewhere” turned out to be a room in a house owned by two old ladies who took in boarders. The old house faced the railroad station and was quaint in the old world style. It fit right into the picture postcard appearance of romantic Überlingen. Erika, the younger of the two ladies, was very kind and helpful to me. There were also two other tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Koestoll. He was German and she seemed to be what could be considered a typical French housewife, who devoted her life to her German husband. Herr Koestoll, was old and feeble and they sustained themselves on a very small pension. In fact it was so bad that he couldn’t even afford shoes. However their happiness didn’t seem to depend on money. I grew very fond of them for the short time that we knew each other.

Life on the road was just boring. They would land at an airport and take a taxi to the hotel. There they would sit for interviews. A limo would take them to the venue for the sound check; the limo would take them back to the hotel. Then the limo again, the meet-and-greet in the dressing rooms before the show and then more faces to meet and greet afterward and perhaps another interview. Out to back fence to sign some autographs. Then the limo back to the hotel.

If the earth is a hotel, our life is just about the time we spend in a hotel between check-in and check-out.

What offer could I possibly refuse from a kidnapper and a murderer?’ ‘Ah, sarcasm, the easiest form of humor and the trait of an ordinary mind. Your predictability never ceases to amuse me, Dulac. Classifications aside, I’ve arranged for us to meet in Belize City, tomorrow evening. I’ve reserved a ticket in your name for the morning flight to New York. The connecting flight to Belize City gets in at 4 p.m.’ ‘Why in hell’s name would I go anywhere to meet you?’ ‘Because I have something here that you want.’ ‘If you’re talking about the diary—’ ‘Dulac, trust me. I guarantee you will accept my offer. Oh, and don’t bother calling Roquebrun. I’m told he’s enjoying the Vatican’s money in a five star brothel in Kuala Lumpur.’ ‘Bastard. Out of curiosity, who ratted? Garcia?’ ‘Must be, although that’s also irrelevant now.’ ‘Not to me. If you didn’t, Garcia must have ordered the contract to whack me.’ ‘Why don’t you ask him? By the way, I booked your room at the Hotel Mirador and I’ve deposited $10,000 USD in your Paris bank account, for incidentals. You’re probably thinking you’ll need company. Shall we meet in the hotel restaurant, say at 7 p.m.? Oh, and Dulac, time is pressing. Don’t disappoint me.’ The line went dead. ‘Go for it,’ said Karen over the phone. ‘What have you got to lose?’ ‘Try two miserable days flying half way round the planet on a quack call from a murdering psychopath.’ ‘Like it or not, in one way or another, he’s always kept his promise.’ ‘That’s a strange way of looking at it,’ said Dulac. ‘At first, I thought he wanted to sell me the diary, but why go through all that trouble? He can send it directly to the Vatican. There’s something else, but why me?’ ‘Bizarre as it may seem, you’re probably the only one he can trust.’ ‘I’ve checked the reservations and they’re confirmed and paid for. And I received ten grand in my account. I suppose if he wanted me dead, he would just hire another hit man.’ Dulac took a drag from his Gitane. First, I’ve got to call Gina again. Then I have some unfinished business in Belize.’ ‘If you don’t mind, this time I won’t go with you. But do be careful, Thierry.’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have professional backup.’ Chapter

From 111 Mike " I never travel with drugs because I don't want to get caught at the airport, so if I ever have any coke or ecstasy left over after night of partying I tuck it in the pages of the Bible in my hotel room. I like to picture someone alone in the strange city, lost and looking for answers , opening the Bible and having my leftover drugs fall into his or her pal. I consider it missionary work." --- haha, never touch the hotel Bible, or, always check the Bible out?

know because I had found the conference website, called the hotel, and asked them to send over a copy of his invoice, claiming to be his assistant filing an expense report. And he wasn’t there. No Daniel Briggs had checked in or out of the hotel, let alone registered for the conference.

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Le implicazioni degli impianti nel nostro settore sono enormi: se e quando gli impianti diventeranno mainstream, non è difficile prevedere che gli ospiti vorranno poter entrare in camera solo con il tocco della mano, pagare con un gesto e così via. Stesso discorso per chi in hotel ci lavora: potremo dire addio a passe-partout persi e rimpiazzarli con un semplice tocco, finalizzare check-in e check-out con un semplice movimento. Le applicazioni sono davvero infinite.

started calling him by his formal name out of respect for his father. But, by that time, everyone was so used to the nickname that it didn’t seem right to call him anything else. Now, he only used his formal name when he signed business documents, but everyone called him Ben. When his mother married Troy Carlson three years after his father died, people outside of their circle assumed that Ben's last name was Carlson, as well. This mistake became a benefit when Ben became an adult because it gave him a certain level of anonymity that he used when he travelled. After he turned his attention back to the business at hand, he checked in along with the rest of the party and used his assumed last name as he handed over a company credit card. Over the years he discovered that to check into hotels using his real name usually led to trouble. Benjamin Stanford III was quickly becoming something of a local celebrity in the Seattle area and most of the West Coast even though he tried to keep a low profile. Ever since he took over the helm of the family business from his mother, who ran it after his father died, he had invested heavily into researching and developing cleaner solutions for the waterways, as well as, expanding the other areas of biochemical uses in manufacturing for which the company was originally known. These investments paid off, and the once small company grew to become a world leader in research, which made him an even richer man than he was when he took over. That also led to him being named one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors by Seattle Magazine three years ago. Before that, his personal life was relatively uneventful, and

Website: Greydonhouse.com; Instagram: @greydonhouse. When you really want to get away from it all, check out the Wauwinet Inn. It’s nine miles out of town (this is very far by Nantucket standards), but the drive takes you along the beautiful, winding Polpis Road,

He buried money in distant hotel rooms, carried tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands, around in a suitcase; he kept wads of cashier’s checks in his wallet. He always had a back door, a quick exit, a way of getting out, because behind the boarded-up windows of his life, the Godfather’s fear of having nothing was overwhelming in its ability to swallow him whole and send him into a series of wild behaviors.

I haven’t been drained that low in a long time. I shouldn’t have tried to take so much all at once,” I muttered, wanting to apologise but not quite finding the right words beyond that statement. “Well feel free to just steal all of mine then,” Darcy spat icily, clutching her neck tighter. I had the urge to heal her, but knew if I tried to touch her again, she’d only recoil. The ambulance pulled away and I glanced around, double checking Darius wasn’t here and I was glad to find he’d listened to me for once. That was something anyway. “Come on, I can drive you girls back in my car,” I offered. I’d left my Faerrari parked at the Acrux Hotel when I’d last visited Tucana, opting to stardust home because I’d been too drunk to drive. But I hadn’t had any magical drinks tonight, so I’d healed myself of the effects of the whiskey I’d consumed before coming to get Darius from the nightclub. Tory’s lip curled back as she glared at me with poison in her gaze. “We’re not going anywhere alone with you,” Darcy said bitterly, distrust in her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, stepping forward to get hold of her. I’d protect her tonight whether she liked it or not. Tory moved to intercept me and Caleb joined her too like a prime asshole. “You don’t fucking touch her again,” Tory growled. I narrowed my eyes at her, about to object, but as my gaze slid to Darcy over her shoulder and I saw the wall in her eyes that told me to get fucked, I knew I wasn’t going to win this fight. “Bastard,” Darcy hissed at me, looking woozy. Shit, I needed to heal her. And I could get her a blood replenishing potion back at the academy. “Come on, girls. The bus is gonna leave soon,” Caleb said, tugging Tory after him but she dug her heels in, waiting for Darcy. I opened my mouth to try and find the words that would convince Blue to stay with me, but she walked straight past me with her cheek turned and Tory threw me one more filthy look before they all headed down the street to the bus stop where mountains of students were gathering. Professors were among them and I knew they were safe enough in numbers, but my feet were still rooted to the pavement as I watched Darcy leave. You drank way too much. You have to get a grip. How are you going to keep feeding from her if you act like a monster every time your teeth are in her? I’d never had this problem before. The only thing I could compare it to was when my magic had been Awakened and my Order had Emerged. That first feed had made me feel like a ravenous beast with a bottomless stomach, and yet it still didn’t have a pinch on what it was like to feed from Blue. Caleb led Tory and Darcy past the queue straight onto the bus and my hackles rose as they joined Max and Seth on the back seats. And as Seth pulled Darcy close to him and nuzzled against her cheek, that feral animal in me awoke once more. I took out my Atlas and shot an update to Francesca, anxiously scoring my fingers through my hair. Just as the bus pulled away and rounded a corner, the FIB appeared on the street and I was immediately surrounded by three agents with dark frowns on their faces. “Lance Orion, you need to come down to the station and make a statement,” Captain Hoskins said and I sighed, knowing it was going to be a long ass night. I agreed and as I was stardusted away to the precinct, my heart was tugged in another direction, nearly forcing the stars to guide me elsewhere. But the captain ensured I made it to where he wanted to take me and I made a silent prayer to the stars that Darcy wouldn’t end up in Seth Capella’s bed tonight. Because I wasn’t sure I could control the demon in me who’d want his head for that. (ORION POV)

Her chances of a decent marriage were about to be dashed—and all because of a ferret. Unfortunately Poppy Hathaway had pursued Dodger halfway through the Rutledge Hotel before she recalled an important fact: to a ferret, a straight line included six zigs and seven zags. “Dodger,” Poppy said desperately. “Come back. I’ll give you a biscuit, any of my hair ribbons, anything! Oh, I’m going to make a scarf out of you . . .” As soon as she caught her sister’s pet, Poppy swore she was going to alert the management of the Rutledge that Beatrix was harboring wild creatures in their family suite, which was definitely against hotel policy. Of course, that might cause the entire Hathaway clan to be forcibly removed from the premises. At the moment, Poppy didn’t care. Dodger had stolen a love letter that had been sent to her from Michael Bayning, and nothing in the world mattered except retrieving it. All the situation needed was for Dodger to hide the blasted thing in some public place where it would be discovered.  ... The ferret paused at a corner, checked to make certain he was still being chased, and in his happy excitement, he did a little war dance, a series of sideways hops that expressed pure delight. Even now, when Poppy wanted to murder him, she couldn’t help but acknowledge that he was adorable. “You’re still going to die,” she told him, approaching him in as unthreatening a manner as possible. “Give me the letter, Dodger.” The ferret streaked past a colonnaded lightwell that admitted sunshine from overhead and sent it down three floors to the mezzanine level. Grimly, Poppy wondered how far she was going to have to chase him. He could cover quite a lot of territory, and the Rutledge was massive, occupying five full blocks in the theater district. “This,” she muttered beneath her breath, “is what happens when you’re a Hathaway. Misadventures . . . wild animals . . . house fires . . . curses . . . scandals . . .

I’ve gotten good at feeling guilty for doing what is best for me. And guilt is one of those emotions that rarely comes with an off switch. Sometimes I feel like I need to check out of life the way other people check out of hotels. Sign whatever I need to sign, hand back the keys to the life I am living, and find somewhere new.

Role of Arrogance Arrogance has its purpose, but first you gotta learn how to use it, so that it's a force for good, rather than a primeval tendency of self-aggrandizing. Let me tell you a story. I was traveling to deliver a talk. The driver friend picked me up at the airport and dropped me at a fancy hotel booked by the organizers. At the reception before me there was an elderly couple. From what I gathered, their daughter had booked a room for them, but they were having a little difficulty communicating it. I could sense that the hotel people at the desk didn't take them seriously to begin with, probably because they weren't dressed fancy. I kept quiet. Finally the elderly man and woman gave up. They lowered their heads in disappointment and turned around to walk out without checking in. And just as their backs were turned, I heard one of the receptionists make the remark, "village idiots!" That's it - I lost my cool! In that situation, at that moment, I felt as if my own parents were being treated like that. I held the elderly gentleman by the wrist, marched up to the desk, and spoke. "You think you are so fancy, don't you - working at a fancy place in your fancy clothes and phony etiquette - so much so that you forgot to treat people like people! You ridicule them because they don't speak English. Well, in that case, I speak more languages than you can count - then how should I treat you - you pathetic little tribal jerks! It's not enough to wear clean clothes, go home and wash your heart with some soap. Despite all that cologne, you stink! You can manage a hotel, you can manage a business, but you don't manage people, you treat them like family." I would've went on and on, but the elderly person stopped me. Don't know whether the people at the reception realized their mistake, but by the look on their face they sure did feel small. A moment later with a tinge of remorse and utter humility in voice, the other receptionist spoke. She apologized to the couple in their native tongue and finally helped them check in, without any miscommunication or frustration.

Matt Swierad has been broadcasting minor-league baseball for twenty-three years—ever since he graduated from Jacksonville University with a degree in history. He spent seven years in the Class A South Atlantic League before landing the job in Charlotte in 1998. He was only thirty-one at the time and was on the path he wanted to be to get to the major leagues. Seven years later, Swierad was still in Charlotte and beginning to wonder if the major leagues were just a pipe dream. Then came an unexpected—if temporary—opportunity. Jerry Coleman, who had been doing play-by-play for the San Diego Padres forever, was being inducted into the Hall of Fame. The Padres needed someone to fill in for the three games that Coleman would miss during Hall of Fame weekend and put out a notice that anyone interested in the three-day job could send in an application. Swierad almost didn’t bother. “I figured there was no chance, that someone who had an in with someone out there would probably get it,” he said. “My wife finally convinced me that I should at least give it a shot.” The Knights were in Buffalo on a long road trip and had gotten to the hotel early one morning to find that they couldn’t check into their rooms right away—a frequent occurrence of Triple-A travel. When they finally got in their rooms, Swierad walked over to a nearby food court to get some lunch.

Sometimes I feel like I need to check out of life the way other people check out of hotels. Sign whatever I need to sign, hand back the keys to the life I am living, and find somewhere new. Somewhere safe. But maybe there is still something worth staying for?

Then there was a more alarming conversation from two days ago. Dina: We need to talk. Alison: I know. I’m really worried about you. Dina: Did you check on that thing I asked about? Alison: Yes. There is nothing there. Nothing. Are you sure that’s what all this is about? Dina: I don’t know. They never said for sure. But if I don’t find whatever it is they want, they’re going to kill me. I’m really scared. Alison: Me too. I don’t know how to help. Maybe we should tell my mom. Dina: OMG no. No parents! Alison: We might have to call the police. Dina: NO. NO POLICE. Alison: Then what do we do? Dina: IDK. Can you sleep over at my house tomorrow night? After work? We can talk then. Alison: Sure. “What the hell did these kids get into?” Gretchen muttered. “And who is ‘they?’” asked Josie. “There’s no way to know just from these texts,” said Noah. “We need to get out on the street and start talking to more people.” “We need to find Alison Mills,” said Gretchen. “I’ll get back on the search today if you two want to follow up on the hotel leads—in particular their coworkers and boss, who, according to these text messages, is this Max person Dina was into.” Josie plopped into her chair. She pulled up the internet browser on her computer and went to the Eudora Hotel’s website. Within seconds, she found the name of the catering and events manager. “Max Combs.

There’s something very fucked up at Hotel Miramar, and we need to check-out before we check-in.

At all these European shows there are autograph collectors who stand outside for sound check and before the show and sometimes at the hotel. I don’t even know if they know who I am. At Gateshead, I signed autographs going in to the show, when I came out this little guy came up to me. Cathy said, “You already signed for him.” He said, “No! I wasn’t here before.” He was irate. Anyway, Cathy and I got in the car and went to the hotel that was about ¼ mile away. The guy beat the car there. I told him (he was Irish) that he’d just broken the Irish 200 meter record. I signed and invited him up to the room to spend the night. I love great athletes.

Will do. You too.” The cab takes me to the hotel lot, where the buses are parked. We’re headed for Arizona and have six hours to make it to sound check. Nowadays I’d normally fly, but I don’t feel like being alone, so I stow my new backpack and mount the stairs. The band’s already onboard, playing poker, and Jay looks up at me in surprise. “Whoa. What happened? Wouldn’t let you through security or something?” “Nah, just thought I’d slum it some.” I get a Diet Coke out of the fridge and sit on one of the sofas. “How was everyone’s day off?” “Simon lost practically his whole

I was curious to find out more about the handsome Italian Count, so I pressed Andy for information. I began, "Are you going to do some modeling for him?" My Valet smiled and answered, "Don’t you want me to?" "Yes, of course! It will be interesting to see how a professional fashion photographer works. After all, if we are going to model for Aziz and if I’m to be his apprentice, we have to know what we are getting ourselves into, don’t we?" I asked, testing the waters, to see how he would take my remark. The waiter came to take our order. I continued, "Call him as soon as we return to the hotel and arrange a meeting; I’d like to get to know him better." Andy gave me a sly grin and said, "I believe you are more interested in being with him than you are in finding out more about modeling and photography, correct?" He poked at the tip of my nose. I smiled craftily and answered, "How did you know?" "I saw your longing eyes checking every part of him when we were talking. You are dying to see what he is made of, in bed, aren't you?" he said teasingly.

In 1964 following a very stressful trip to Russia, [Cousins] was diagnosed with ankylosing spondylitis (a degenerative disease causing the breakdown of collagen), which left him in almost constant pain and motivated his doctor to say he would die within a few months. He disagreed and reasoned that if stress had somehow contributed to his illness (he was not sick before the trip to Russia), then positive emotions should help him feel better. With his doctors’ consent, he checked himself out of the hospital and into a hotel across the street and began taking extremely high doses of vitamin C while exposing himself to a continuous stream of humorous films and similar “laughing matters.” He later claimed that 10 minutes of belly rippling laughter would give him two hours of pain-free sleep, when nothing else, not even morphine, could help him. His condition steadily improved and he slowly regained the use of his limbs. Within six months he was back on his feet, and within two years he was able to return to his full-time job at the Saturday Review. His story baffled the scientific community and inspired a number of research projects.

But as Airbnb became huge, with lots of hosts and travelers, it became increasingly common to have to make multiple attempts to nail down a reservation. Meanwhile, Airbnb’s main competitors were no longer other small Internet businesses, but giant hotel corporations such as Hilton, Marriott, and Best Western. And one huge advantage these huge hotel chains offer to travelers is speedy confirmation. Their transactions are fast: by phone or on the Web, you can quickly find out whether rooms are still available and book one for the night you want. That’s because all the rooms in, say, a Hilton are managed by a central computer system, so one call lets you check all the rooms at the same time. Imagine instead if you had to call Hilton to inquire about each room individually. On any given call, the only thing the reservation clerk could tell you was whether, say, room 1226 at the San Francisco Hilton was available for the night you wanted. If not, you had to make another call to find out about room 1227, then another for room 1228. Booking a room with an Airbnb host was a little like that. So Airbnb had to figure out how a market with many hosts offering one room at a time could compete more effectively with hotels. Price was obviously important. But it was the spread of smartphones that helped Airbnb close the speed gap, and that may have mattered even more than price. Today, as hosts manage their reservations on their smartphones, they don’t have to wait until they return home to confirm a booking—they just check their phones. They can also, as soon as the room is booked, immediately update their Airbnb listing to remove its availability. That in turn makes it easier for a traveler searching for a room to find one that’s available, even though he or she still has to query one room at a time. Thus smartphones make the home hosting market work better not just because hosts can respond faster but also because they can update their bookings, which makes them more informative. This, too, reduces congestion (fewer rooms appear to be available, and a room that looks available is more likely to actually be so), and as a result helps travelers search more efficiently, with fewer time-wasting false leads.

Facebook is sorta like Hotel California. You can check out but you can never leave.

Two rows of wooden cabins, more than a dozen of them, stretched up the slope behind the hotel. The cabins had pitched roofs, vaguely suggesting ultra-utilitarian Alpine chalets. Only two of them had lights on, one in the middle and the last cabin at the end of the row. The last cabin would be where she was meeting Ghanbari, he thought, parking the Toyota around the side of the hotel, next to another SUV. He checked the windows of the hotel and the other structures before getting out of the Toyota but could see no one watching. It was a shame he didn’t have his night vision goggles, he thought, but bringing them through Iranian customs would have been a dead give-away. The Iranians were all over him as it was. He took out the ZOAF pistol, attached the sound suppressor, put it in his ski jacket pocket and got out of the SUV. The night was cloudy. He couldn’t see the stars. A cold wind filled with tiny snow particles blew down from the peak. He walked through the snow behind the first cabin, then higher up and across the slope behind the cabins so he could approach the last cabin from the rear

It was late one night at the hotel bar in Johannesburg when Bill told me his daughter is “a very unusual person.” That she was. A couple of nights later, over a South African chardonnay at the Serena Hotel in Kampala, I suggested to Chelsea that we check out the market in the morning. “It’s supposed to be the biggest market in East Africa,” I said. “Actually, in terms of square footage, Nairobi would dispute that,” Chelsea replied.

And please check out my other books and series: Hartwell Women Series The Beach House Hotel Series Fat Fridays Group Salty Key Inn Series Chandler Hill Inn Series Seashell Cottage Books The Desert Sage Inn Series Soul Sisters at Cedar Mountain Lodge Series The Sanderling Cove Inn Series The Lilac Lake Inn Series