So last night, my roomate, Jan Zimlich, and I are beat. We decide to crash at 10:30. It's been a great conference, small, intimate, very informal, and later I'll blog about how very frank, open and informative Kate Duffy was.
But now I want to share about the fire alarm.
Dead asleep. 11:30 p.m. WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AN EMERGENCY IS ON YOUR FLOOR. HEAD FOR THE NEAREST EXIT IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT USE THE ELEVATOR.
I think I nearly had a heart attack. Being woken from a dead sleep to a shrieking fire alarm is like having someone dump a bucket of ice water over you.
I do not panic. I grab laptop, camera bag and wallet, Jan and I grab hotel robes and we leave, not sure it's a joke or real. I'm not taking chances.
So we walk... down 12 FLIGHTS OF STAIRS.
Get out onto the street. I had no time to don the robe. I'm walking down Royal Street at night in New Orleans in my Eeyore pajamas. And then I realize, hey, it's southern decadance weekend and I"m probably one of the more conservatively dressed people here. After seeing the guys in the chain metal thongs, I KNOW I am. I put on my robe should anyone made cracks about Eeyore looking kinda droopier than normal.
Turns out to be a false alarm.
I see people in the lobby from the conference... Pat, Jo Carol Jones, and I walk up to them and open my robe, flashing them Eyeore and I warble, "They say New Orleans is a party town! I'm just ready to party all night."
They laughed. Politely.
Finally Jan and I return upstairs. Using the elevator.
Now I'm in Altanta, waiting for my flight home. My home, a nice single-story house. NO stairs.
Note to self: Next time book hotel room on 2nd floor.