Marriott Masala

Yesterday I delivered a continental breakfast to the Marriott in a neighboring city. Saturday catering is fairly rare, so I have an agreement with our other driver to take those deliveries, while he takes any Sunday deliveries.

At about a quarter to eight I pulled up in the van in front of the hotel's adjoining conference center and loaded the trays onto a cart. I went inside and looked up at the directory of events. I was supposed to be taking the food to the W____ Family Suite, which I mistakenly assumed was the name of a meeting room inside the conference center. (You know, named in honor of the W____ family, who donated the funds to this multi-million dollar hotel chain to build a conference room in their honor.) Not seeing any mention of that suite, I walked to the rear of the lobby and into a very small office. There was a man in shirt sleeves and a tie bent over in a chair tying his shoes. He seemed flustered that I walked in on him, as if tying his shoes was an intimate part of his daily attiring, not meant to be seen. His voice was impatient and a little strained from bending over when he corrected my mistake.

I pushed the cart down a hall in the direction of the hotel proper. Fortunately I had left the restaurant early and had some time. After maybe thirty yards, the hall opened up into a wider area. The space was full of traditionally dressed Indians (not Native-Americans, but the sub-continental kind). On my right was a set of double doors opening up onto an elaborately decorated banquet hall, with rows of chairs wrapped in beautiful fabric, facing an intricate sort of altar. I gathered this was a wedding. There was a man with a very large, professional-looking video camera filming the decor. To the right of the doors was a shrine to Ganesha, the Lord of Good Fortune and Destroyer of Obstacles, complete with candles set on an embroidered rug on the floor, which had the effect of extending the shrine several feet in front of the god's image. The people milling about were lightly perfumed and smelled lovely. (Can I, as a man, use that word here, Kevin?)

Another thirty yards and I was in the lobby of the hotel. It was the most lavish looking hotel I had been in since Jenni and I stayed at the L'Enfant Plaza in D.C. (One night I got drunk in the hotel bar and offended tv personality Pat O'Brien, in town for an NFC championship game featuring the Lions at the Redskins. This was long before his infamous voice mail messages, which made me feel somewhat vindicated for his snub. But that's an entry for another day.)

A desk attendant directed me to the W____ family suite on the fourth floor. I delivered the food and set it up without incident then headed back onto the elevator. Outside in the parking lot as I was turning the van around I saw a slow moving procession led by a white Ford Explorer. In the wake of the vehicle was a man dressed in traditional Indian garb banging on a large drum. Behind him a large group of wedding revelers were clapping and dancing and shouting. A loud sound system inside the Explorer played piquant sitar music.


The Songs I'm Listening To:
Rainer Maria Broken Radio
Television Little Johnny Jewell
Paul McCartney Jet
Of Montreal I Was Never Young
The Spinners I'll Be Around (a melancholy wonder)