Here’s the bad thing about London…you basically pay 10 times what you’d pay anywhere else for the privilege of staying in a room the size of a closet. I’ve accepted this.
I complain about it (of course) but I’ve accepted it.
But after two days and two nights of serious claustrophobia, we beat a hasty retreat from the overrated Langham and checked into the randomly named – but beautiful - Rocco Forte Brown’s Hotel instead.
Talk about the right decision. The hotel was even kid friendly! They had everything from kid’s toothpaste and bath toys, to a Maya-sized robe/slippers and a personalized cookie. I was seriously impressed. And so was Maya.
Or so I thought until she took a look out the window and said: “Could this view be any more terrible?”
Now if I’d ever dared to say something like this, my Indian father would have smacked me from here to kingdom come and back. And then, 6 months later, he’d smack me again out of the blue when he randomly remembered my obnoxious comment.
Me? I have a “hands-off policy” and thus launched into a lecture instead about how ungrateful Maya is, how she needs to watch her mouth, and how she should appreciate all that she has instead of wanting all the things she can’t have.
But later, when my blood pressure had settled a bit I realized something: Maya’s just mimicking me. I mean, instead of being grateful that I was in London, there I was complaining about how troublesome it was that the Langham Hotel elevators were the size of coffins.
I’m going to try to practice what I preach for a change. I’m sure I’ll fail. But I’m still going to try.