Anybody got the number for the Marriott?

yes. that is linoleum on the floor.

How ’bout that? Turns out, it really does pay to do your research. It’s just that I got all excited about this writers conference taking place smack in da hood of downtown Atlanta. I envisioned cool artist-type people milling around, ya know, conferencing, so I jumped right in with both feet and a credit card number. The hotel is right around the corner from the conference, so I could totally see myself strolling the half-mile to and fro with my laptop, it would be perfect.

It might have been helpful to know that some would say a night in this hotel is “worse than a tour of duty in Iraq”. Or that others say that it is “ghetto and weed-smelling”. Yes. That would’ve been good information to arm myself with as I called in my reservation. But, I’m an impulsive thing and it never crossed my mind.

Don’t believe me? Check out TripAdvisor’s reviews… I am especially partial to the “Oh My God” post… http://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotel_Review-g60898-d498897-Reviews-Castleberry_Inn-Atlanta_Georgia.html

It’s not that I mind having a crackhead lounging on my car. What kind of snob would I have to be to care about that? It’s just that I’m not up on the latest crackhead removal techniques and seeing as my particular crackhead was shouting to invisible people and making herself laugh hysterically, well… she seemed to be having such a darn good time, I didn’t want to bust up her little party. So I dashed back inside the lobby, where I figured it would be at least quieter.

Nope. Too bad for me, turns out there was a situation brewing in the lobby, which I also was inequipped to handle. A large barefooted man wearing nothing but what I assume were African pajama pants, stood gripping tightly to his plastic Walmart shopping bag luggage and waxing poetic about the injustice of it all. He was tired of it. Tired of it all! And, wow, what very colorful language he used to explain just how tired of it all he was.

Torn between the happy crackhead on my car and the angry poet in my lobby, I retreated even further. Squeezing into the elevator with a couple who was actively trying to make a baby, we all headed back to floor #4. My new friends and I got off the elevator together and – what do you know! – they were in the room right next to me! How ’bout that? Small world.

Dead-bolted inside, I sat on my bed, careful not to touch much, listening to some thump thump thumping and contemplating my next move. The conference was about to begin. I was going to be late. I’ve waited for this for months! Damnit.

I went to the mirror and pep-talked myself. You can do this, Stupid. You really can. Just put on your Don’t Mess With Me face and get the hell out there. It’s half a mile. Go.

So I went. I went four steps out the front door when I saw what I’m pretty sure were the makings of a gang initiation. (I watch 48 hours. I know what’s going on.) So walking would not be an option.

Returning to the parking lot, thankfully my crackhead had left the trunk of my Honda for greener pastures. She’d moved on to a car painted like a Mountain Dew can and was even happier. I was thrilled to see it turned out so well for both of us.

I drove .4 miles down the block to the conference site and how bout that? It was a whole other world. Downtown Atlanta is amazing, I tell you. There were artists milling around, some lady in a cool gypsy skirt invited me to a wine tasting and art viewing. This was my vision! This was it! Oh, if only I could sleep in my car here in this new parking lot.

Night one of the conference was wonderful. The people were great – fabulous people like Hollis Gillespie and Cristal Presley spoke to us about their writing experiences. I got all swept up in it and almost forgot where I was headed to spend the night. Almost.

Eating out wasn’t an option, although to be fair, a group of four friendly men did invite me to “da club”. I declined and headed back up to floor #4. I ate half a box of Tic Tacs for dinner, called my loved ones to let them know I love them (just in case) and called it a night. And by “called it a night”, I mean stayed up until 2:14AM listening to a fascinating argument through the walls, presumably between the baby-makers, about which club to go to. I don’t know if they ever decided, but there were thumps and bumps and slamming doors and I’m pretty sure room 413 is now without a working television.

It’s 5:52AM and I survived the night. I will now embark on my quest for the nearest Marriott before heading to day two of the conference. Right after I go look myself in the mirror and get geared up, un-dead-bolt myself and dash to my car.

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