I Do It My Way

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: We arrived in Glasgow yesterday, said good-bye to our trusty little Fiat 500, and are readjusting to city life, one of us more easily than the other. Personally, I am missing the quiet of the Hebrides.

I Do It My Way

After several thousand nights in hotels, I’ve developed an unusual level of comfort—you might say I have a sense of ownership. I move the furniture around. I unplug the clock radio, and sometimes the television. I’m willing to hack into the AC controls, if I can find a YouTube tutorial. I carry a length of black electrical tape for covering up random LED lights. I don’t mind asking for an extra chair, hangers, a fan, a fridge, a kettle, a yoga mat. Sometimes I use the little pants clips on the clothes hangers, turned sideways, to hold the curtains closed.

I move in like I own the place.

One of the more bizarre things I do—in Lee’s opinion—is bring my own food to breakfast. I defend this practice; it’s not as if I’m absconding with the spoons, or stealing hard-boiled eggs and stuffing them in my back pockets *ahem*.

Things I’ve smuggled INTO breakfast:

Peanut butter

Expensive butter

Crumpets

A chunk of Parmesan

Blueberries

Leftover pastries

Packets of halvah

Prunes

Cashews

Splenda

An entire bag of granola

I would point out that none of those items have the kind of fragrance that carries across a room. I’ve never taken my own cup noodles, or dried shrimp, or little baggies of spices.

But I’ve sat next to people who did.

Take care,

Lisa

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