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Home > Atlanta Music Scene > Archives > 2008 > August > 29
Friday, August 29, 2008
Doria Roberts — From The Road
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
This Dispatch From The Road comes from Atlanta singer-songwriter Doria Roberts, who’s doing a rare, FREE, two sets at Vino Libro Sunday.
Did you catch her annual birthday show last week at Apache Café? Planning to be at Vino Libro this weekend? Are you a longtime Roberts fan?
Well the following — a glimpse at spending a majority of her year on the road —should be of particular interest:
“there’s no place like home.”
when you’re a touring musician this becomes your mantra. in the middle of a brutal five week tour, i usually find myself, like dorothy, clicking my heels and counting down the days until i can pull back the comforter on my own bed and not find someone else’s hair on the sheets. these hairs (always black, always curly) force you to face the reality night after night that your job just isn’t that glamorous. “oh, if my fans could see me now”, i’ve often chuckled to myself while climbing into sweatpants, socks and a hoodie (with the hood up and cinched around my head) so i won’t have exposed skin touching the bed i’m sleeping in. and don’t think that i’m just talking about the bad hotels.
i started using priceline about 5 years ago in an effort to save money and it has been a lifesaver. i went from staying at the days inn in ferndale, mi (a “suburb” of detroit) to residing at the elizabeth arden resort in tucson. but, again, the horrible truth is that no matter where you are staying, you are staying where hundreds before you have stayed.
now, i’m no snob (i was born and raised in trenton, nj) but i have to admit that, when i get into the really nice hotels, it is bliss and i am queen of my universe. there are bellman to help with my bags and guitars. someone to park the car in a secure lot. i am “ms. roberts” (and sometimes mr. if i’ve been driving all night and haven’t showered). a swift elevator ride and mints on the pillow. ice is fetched. the tv is turned on with a working remote and i’m able to relax in relative luxury for the three or so hours i have until soundcheck. and, while this sounds exceptional, i still have to say “relative luxury” for a reason.
you see, no matter how many stars the travel websites can legally cram next to the name of a hotel and no matter how efficient the cleaning staff is at said hotel, there will inevitably be that errant pair of men’s 2XL underwear tucked behind the toilet. the law of averages dictates this if you are on the road ten months out of the year like i am. and also like me, you will catch yourself in the mirror as you reach for the hotel phone to ask “why? why me?”. but then, in the midst of your existential pondering, you’ll realize you are using a telephone that is installed in a strange (and public) bathroom. fancy, yes. convenient, sure. but nasty all the same. blanching at the thought of having had said device on your face, you decide to take your complaint downstairs.
having just checked in, the front desk staff is cordial enough and sincerely wants to know if everything is okay with your room. but, divulging this type of thing has to be handled delicately. after all, they’re used to housing diplomats and senators at Four Star Hotel X, not indie musicians who hoard backstage snacks in the off chance they’ll run out of money before they can eat again. you want to maintain your dignity (no one should have to encounter 2XL men’s underwear…ever…anywhere…for any reason) but you also want to be classy about it.
taking a deep breath you broach the subject. you use terms like “commode” instead “toilet” and “men’s undergarments” as opposed to “ginormous boy panties”. they listen, horrified, pulling up your account, offering to move you to another room, discount your next meal (or better yet make it on the house!), send your firstborn to college. whatever it takes not to make this an international incident.
but then something happens.
they see it as clear as day on the top of your registration page: PRICELINE CLIENT. this changes things a bit. okay, a lot. suddenly, they don’t care if your room is on fire. you should be lucky they’re letting you stay there at all. now, i don’t care that i am what i‘ve coined as “priceline trash”. i love beating the hotels at their own game. paying $45 for a room that normally costs $125 a night is better than sex. yup, i said it. i have no qualms about loading up an immaculately polished brass luggage cart with my beat up cooler full of food or with recycled, greasy shopping bags from whole foods. it says clearly (defiantly), “no, i won’t be paying $15 for a bowl of oatmeal at your fancy pants restaurant. i have a week’s supply that cost me $3.50. and, yes, it’s instant and organic thank you very much. get into it.”. i’m proud of the fact that i’ve learned how to save money on the road. it allows me to stay a full time musician. i reduced my hotel expenditures by 60% the first year i used priceline. so, take that W (the hotel chain, not the president. or, well, maybe him too.)
but i digress…
the staff, suddenly not so accommodating, informs me they’ll be sending “someone” up “some time soon”. i am no longer ms. roberts when she calls housekeeping. i am merely “room 218”. she smiles a forced smile and says i can “retire” to my room and meet them there. i “smile” back and discreetly scan her name tag. anna forrester. “well, ms. forrester”, i say to myself, “try explaining to corporate why you licked my hand when i took my keys from you.” sadly, comment cards are the last bastion of revenge for the out of place, pissed on (and pissed off) poor.
back at the room, a small, stern but friendly woman named claudia has already started the process of removing the offensive sack o’ drawers from my bathroom. she is apologetic. “not my shift. new girl. so sorry.” i tell her it’s alright. that i’m used to it. she relaxes and smiles. she allows herself to look around my room and upon seeing my guitars asks me if i’m a musician. i say yes. “oh, you must be doing really well if you’re staying here! are you famous?” i confess my pricelining, she laughs heartily and says, “good for you!”.
after cleaning the bathroom in its entirety, claudia leaves. but, then, 10 minutes later, i hear a knock at my door and when i open it there is a gift basket of sorts in the hall, the kind of welcome basket a neighbor might leave if you just moved into the neighborhood. and then i suddenly remember the other mantra of the lonely, perpetual traveler: “home is wherever you are.”
in the basket i found soaps (the fancy pants kind), lotions, several sewing kits, shower caps (how did she know?!) and three bottles of water (for which the hotel will usually charge $4 a piece). a little note says “good luck! -c”. i recall her last name (lopez) and reach for the comment card on my desk. “ms. lopez”, i begin, “was an exceptional associate during my stay. much more so than that hand-licking psycho anna forrester at the front desk”. and, with that, order is restored in my tiny traveling universe.
long live the queen.
