Welcome to Orlando

I am presently ensconced in the International Plaza Resort and Spa in sunny Orlando, Florida. I make this statement loosely given that technically speaking, it is night and neither warm nor sunny. It is, rather, cool and moony. Furthermore, and perchance more unexpectedly, the International Plaza Resort and Spa has proven to be neither resort nor spa but indeed motel. And if Ludacris has taught us anything...you can't even take a ho to a motel. You've got to take a ho to a HO-tel.

My first story guest room opens directly onto a parking lot, which is chiefly occupied by construction trailers for the renovation of one of the buildings. I am easily accessible to rapists and salamanders alike (and incidentally, I'm not entirely sure which would cause me a greater stress reaction). The air conditioner won't turn off when I turn the switch to "OFF," and the room is literally so cold otherwise that I may be the only person in the history of May in Orlando to actually have the heat running. The bath products are of dubious origin, the channel lineup is sorely lacking (I am currently resigned to watching Coyote Ugly, which is on television so frequently these days that they may as well rename it That '70s Show - and while we're on the subject, may I just say that if that movie is indeed based on the life and times of the author of Eat Pray Love, there must have been some serious cinematic license where plotline is concerned), and despite an exhaustive search I have not been able to turn up a room service menu or any sort of "Resort" informational guide.

The common areas, I will concede, are lovely. The place is meant to evoke a Balinese villa. And while my boss scoffed, "I have been to Bali, and this is not Bali," they could have fooled me. Apart from the dance competition competitors and proud supporters crowding the lobby this afternoon - they could have fooled me into thinking I wandered onto the set of Little Miss Sunshine II. There are three pools, all with waterfalls and one with a poolside bar. I may have had to explicitly instruct the bartender on how to make an on-the-rocks margarita that didn't blow ("Just tequila, lime, and Triple Sec?" he asked, flummoxed that anyone could possibly be averse to a quart of sour mix per ounce of hard stuff), but when supervised he made an excellent drink. Then there is the on-site mini golf course. My father, not entirely inaccurately, claims that if one were to look in the dictionary under "Mini Golf," one would find a picture of yours truly and the admonishment "DO NOT play with this girl." So I figure that if my boss should annoy me more than usual, I could broach the topic of mini golf as a team building exercise and then let revenge take its natural course.

Tonight, left to my own devices for dinner, I opted for the chain restaurant I had never heard of before: Steak & Ale. The place was empty when I walked in, and as the hostess led me through the Suisse chalet-lite interior to my table, which was accompanied by a pair of leather-seated, velveteen-backed bastardized Louis XIV chairs, I assumed I had missed the 5:00 rush. But soon, patrons began to trickle in and I had the opportunity to play a rousing game of Tourist, Migratory Old Person, Immigrant, or Hick Local. Harder than it counds, believe me.

Steak & Ale specialized in steak but evidently not in ale, as at no point over the course of my meal was I offered an ale menu (nor beer, nor porter, stout, nor even mead), nor did my waiter mention any of the above as a beverage option. Instead, I was educated as to the wine list on the back of the menu, which featured an assortment of fine wines with a per-glass cost of below seven dollars. Apparently they were offering samples of a red wine, and though nobody offered me one, I was entertained by my concerned neighbors ascertaining that the sample was in fact free before they took sips, lest they be held financially accountable for a one ounce pour of Robert Mondavi.

I ordered an 8-ounce prime rib, which featured a baked potato on the side. All of their entrees also came with their all-you-can-eat salad bar, which was an interesting experience. There were a lot of items that one would reasonably expect to see on any salad bar...and then a number of completely incongruous ones. For instance, I have a feeling that more than one individual in line with me was unfamiliar with the chickpea. And there were more dressings available than vegetables, which was a moot point because everyone knows that when availing oneself of a salad bar at a slightly sketchy chain restaurant, ranch is the obvious choice. I made myself a salad which, were I a contestant on Top Chef, I would have entitled "Salade Composee with a duo of smoked pork belly," but which was in point of fact a pile of veggies blanketed in ranch dressing and liberally dusted with not one but two varieties of bacon bit. It was a delight. Sadly, my prime rib was overdone, and while baked potatoes are delicious, I consider them primarily a vehicle to eat several tablespoons of butter.

Post dinner, I decided to stop at the discount liquor store across from my hotel, and was just drunk enough to be seduced into thinking that $9.99 Malibu coconut rum would be phenomenal on the rocks. Then on the way home I became sober. Oops. Thankfully, Malibu coconut rum actually is rather tasty on the rocks, and even if it weren't, it's making a decent sleep aid. That and the lack of televisual programming.

Anyway. That's about it for me as I've been up since 5am and have a busy day tomorrow. Until the next time...