My stateroom
Somewhere many years ago, I think I read that Disney invented the turkey chute at Disneyland. They put it to good use boarding the QV passengers. We went through security similar to airports’ but it was faster and more sensible and they didn’t care if you carry a knife. Don’t get caught with a bottle of Pepsi, though. Then we snaked back and forth in the chute to reach a bank of folks who took our pictures and issued us cards. Through the tunnel and aboard.
I am in 4035 and I have a balcony. To be fair, I think every outside room has a balcony. It was only 50 when we left FL, so I’ll wait ‘til it warms up, then sit out day and night. Woot!
The temperature was about 50 as we were gathered in the hotel lobby waiting to board the bus, a fellow joined us. “It’s cold out.” Me: “Seattle had 6 inches of snow last week. This isn’t cold.” Another fellow: “We’re from Syracuse. It’s not cold.” The lady beside me: “We’re from here in Florida. It’s cold!”
Brower garbage trucks do not have back-up beepers. And I reflected that this is the kind of observation mystery characters make—or mystery writers. Colombo was a master of it. And I watched a lady walk by in wedge sneakers. I can’t use that in a book, though. Not believable enough.
By the concierge’s desk sat six big pieces of matching luggage and a suit bag. My four carry-on size bags are paltry.
After breakfast I walked down the beach for a photo of the light tower. The resorts; huge resorts; sit cheek by jowl next to each other, each claiming a minuscule stretch of beach. And they’ve half built a new one, squeezed in between others.
A headline in Sunday’s Globe and Mail screamed “Paris Hilton is one of the worst chefs in history.” Talk about your slow news day.