Alison and I just got back from Miami, where she had a conference to attend. Since her airfare and at least one night in the hotel were going to be covered anyway, we decided it was a good idea for me to pack a bag and find a cheap flight to go with, and we ended up having all day Saturday and most of Sunday to lie on the sand or by the pool, and explore South Beach’s offerings. And it was a great idea. We had some terrific food, saw a fair bit of the neighborhood, got plenty of sun, and Alison (minus the influence of her upstairs neighbor) banked a lot of sorely-needed sleep.
The unexpected benefit of the weekend was that it finally cured me of a bad habit: I tend to fill wine glasses a little too enthusiastically. Alison has dubbed my practice “the Alan pour.” On Saturday, after an amazing dinner at a little Cuban hole in the wall, we stopped by a liquor store and carted a bottle of a Bogle petite syrah back to our hotel. By way of the front desk for a corkscrew and the lobby bar for a couple of plastic glasses, we ended up in our room early to relax with a movie and a glass of vino. I poured two glasses and went to change clothes …
… and then something just exploded. I was alerted to the situation by a steady stream of profanities from the other side of the room. I believe Alison said later she was trying to adjust the sheets at the time, but somehow knocked the glass I’d just set next to her on the bedside table. The word “everywhere” doesn’t even begin to describe the blast radius. We spent the next half hour on our hands and knees, working on the massive red blot on the carpet, the walls, the bed, the furniture, practically the ceiling.
This isn’t my first disaster with red wine or Alison’s – she dropped a glass right after having her old condo professionally painted and while it was on the market, and I’ve worsened the condition of the terrible carpet in my own home with a little misplaced cabernet. But this one implicated Alison’s security deposit, so it was worth scrubbing at with hotel towels. And spending the next two days furtively pickpocketing fresh towels and sheets from the housekeeping carts and finding creative ways to jettison the stained versions of the same.
For the next 48 hours, we laughed about “one for our homies” — I’m pretty sure Alison poured one for all our homies, to date and forever. I repeatedly brought up the “Crossroads” video, the mountain procession scene from Bone Thugz ‘n Harmony:
So at the near expense of getting kicked out of our hotel, at least we have Karma covered.