Ninc at Nite (Lynn Kerstan)

The aftermath of a writers conference is mostly a blur. We all learn too much to remember. We do too much, eat too greedily, party too hard, sleep too little. There isn’t enough time for all the friends, the activities, the opportunities.

Pat, Tara, and I had hoped to post lively, entertaining pieces live from last week’s Novelists, Inc., conference in San Diego. Didn’t happen. Oh, we took lots of pictures. Made lots of notes. But the one thing lacking at this writers conference was time to write.

Not counting Tara, who was nearly always closeted in her room with her nearly-due book. For her, this was a true writer's retreat. Pat spent so much time on boat trips of various kinds that U.S. Navy recruiters were giving her the eye. As a lowly-but-busy member of the conference staff, I ran interference, errands and a chauffeur service.

Let it be said, though, that a StoryBroad’s priorities are always in place. Nothing, but nothing, impeded our ongoing search for the World’s Best Onion Rings. And we’ll soon get around to posting pictures and highlights from the Ninc Conference.

But this morning, after the first good night’s sleep in a week, all I can remember clearly is . . . the hotel’s bathrooms. In all my travels, I’ve never seen anything quite like them. A good chunk of the 53 million dollars spent renovating the U.S. Grant Hotel was clearly dedicated to creating those lavish loos.

I have stayed in hotel rooms smaller than the shower in our bathroom. Heck, the bedroom in my apartment should be the size of that shower! Apparently designed for communal bathing experiences, it featured a marble bench in one corner that was well out of water’s reach. Meant for an audience, I suppose.

Rarely have I been intimidated by plumbing, but the display of fixtures required considerable analysis. Six gleaming metal rectangles–some high, some middling, some low--were set in the dusky-pink marble wall. Each contained 64 little holes, and the rectangles could be adjusted to send sprays just about any direction. When they all got going, the experience was like standing in the midst of a gentle waterfall.

I spent a lot of time in that shower, but not for the bathing. And not for observing anyone else! It was the acoustics, and the sound of my voice when I sang in that enclosure, that enraptured me. Really, I sounded like some other singer altogether. A good one. If I am reincarnated, I want the voice I heard in that shower.

On Saturday night, because my room-mate had a 5am call to catch her plane, I stayed in a conference suite with an even more astonishing W.C. In addition to a glass-walled shower–a little kinky, if you ask me–this one featured something called an Infinity Tub. We’d had a large gathering in the suite that night, a conference wind-up experience, and every single one of us made a trek down the hall to see that tub.

At 2am, alone at last, I thought it my duty to experience Infinity and relate the story to my less fortunate fellow writers. Easier said than done. The enormous tub-within-a-tub had every sort of device imaginable. I was afraid to touch any one of them. Then I saw, on the wall, an elegantly framed list of instructions. Job one–turn the plug to the right.

I couldn’t reach the plug. Did I mention this tub was deep? It occurred to short, chunky me that if it was filled to its Infinity-pool mode, I’d need a straw to breath. With considerable effort, I climbed over the towering sides (two, with a trough in between) and spent the next ten minutes trying to get that plug to do its plugging job.

Oaths reverberated around the room. Finally I decided that even though the plug persisted in protruding, it might perhaps have caught hold in the nether regions. Surely nothing so high-tech as this tub would be stymied by a chunk of metal.

Back to the instructions. I identified the metal handle responsible for admitting water to the tub and turned it. Then I let out a yelp. From the ceiling (!) descended a single hard column of water. That’s so wrong. Using a ceiling to fill a bathtub is an overly conspicuous display of faux opulence. I’m just saying.

Anyway, down the water streamed. And out the tub it drained.

I gave up. Out I went. To the bar I crossed. A glass of wine I drank.

I had flunked Bathtub 101. No Infinity for me.