We spent a lot of time in San Antonio wandering around the Riverwalk, seeing a lot of scenery that looked like this:
I never got tired of the view. My legs may have gotten tired, but not the rest of me. Because I am normally a lazy slug and am not used to so much exercise, by the time 11 p.m. rolled around, I was ready for bed.
On our first night there, we were sound asleep when we were woken up by someone knocking on a door out in the hallway. I looked at the clock and saw it was midnight. We waited for the people to wake up and let their visitor in. The knocking didn’t stop.
I stared over to the other side of the bed where I knew Frank was. Since it was dark, I couldn’t actually see him so I just pretended to see him. “What the heck is that?” Frank just mumbled something. Then, as I listened to the knocking, I said, “Is that our door??”
Reluctantly, I climbed out of bed and looked through the peep hole. There was no way I was opening the door; not in a place where they feel the need to post signs like this on their storefronts:
“Who’s there?”
“Brian.”
I don’t know anyone named Brian in NY, much less in a city I have never been in so I yelled back, “You have the wrong room.”
“This is my room,” came his answer.
Okay, is this some dead person coming back from beyond the grave? Is there a zombie out there? I called out, “No, this isn’t your room.” The knocking stopped and I went back to bed. 15 minutes later, the knocking started again. This time Frank got up and told him he had the wrong room and peace returned once more.
The next morning, I slowly opened the door in between the bedroom and the living room, half thinking that Brian went down to the front desk, got a key, let himself in and we’d find him sleeping on the couch. Luckily, the room was empty. I think this is where he finally ended up:
