Last weekend I was in Seattle for the ALA Midwinter Meeting (for the few civilians who read this blog, ALA stands for American Library Association).

What I planned to do:

  • Attend various committee meetings, vendor breakfasts, etc.
  • Visit with colleagues old and new
  • Ramble around Seattle, one of my favorite ALA conference cities
  • Eat at Delancey, restaurant of foodie power-couple Brandon Pettit and Molly Wizenberg (of Orangette and A Homemade Life [which I reviewed!]), and
  • Lunch with my dear friend Peter in celebration of his new gig as Head Librarian at the College of The Canyons

I also came plied with a list of gastropub / cocktail bar recommendations from co-workers and hoped to check out at least a couple for a rare regional craft beer or a fancy-pants retro cocktail.

What I did:

  • Attend various committee meetings, vendor breakfasts, etc.
  • Visit with colleagues old and new
  • Ramble around Seattle, one of my favorite ALA conference cities, and
  • ARRIVE at Delancey about 6p on Saturday, eat a homemade pickle, order aforementioned fancy cocktail and promptly plunge into a choppy sea of hot flashes, queasiness and general malaise.

I had just about made up my mind I needed to accept defeat and begin the trek back to the CBD from Ballard when the pizzas arrived … and I thought, Ewww.

Now, I’ve (almost) never seen a pizza I didn’t like. The smell of cheese is one of life’s great joys for me, any way you slice it. (See, I am feeling better now.) This terrible upheaval of all that was right and good had only happened to me one other time several years ago – when the beautiful aroma of my Christmas Eve filet revolted me, signaling the onset of several days of flu and acute misery – so I knew I had to get out of there but quick. [Let me also pause and note: the pizzas were not, in actual fact, disgusting. They were “really good” according to someone whose excellent health permitted her to remain through dinner.]

I’d like to think there was something Jason Bourne could be proud of in the way I slipped out into the night, melted into the cold ordinariness of a city bus, and, with a determined set to my jaw, gutted it out to freedom my hotel room. Really though I think I might have just blurted, I have to go! and lumbered away. We shall draw a curtain over the next few hours and simply say: no matter what folks might have thought at the Sunday morning vendor breakfast meeting I attended (for various business reasons it could not be missed and I was certainly beyond being contagious at that time), was I hungover? No. Sweaty, glum, and nibbling on toast? Yes. Absolutely.

I spent the bulk of the rest of the trip exploring a very small part of Seattle – room 1510, the bed mostly – although I did get wild, don real pants, and attend THREE hours of meetings on Monday morning. (As someone wise once remarked, ‘Ain’t no meeting like a library meeting cause a library meeting don’t stop…’) Lunch with Peter, amazing coffee, views of the Sound, even a bunch of dudes tossing fish around – not this time. Still, by the end of the trip I could only dream fondly of my own bed and a new set of jammies.

After a day-long voyage to get home and two days of convincing myself I Had to Go In To The Office only to leave my brain at home and return in search of it during the mid-afternoon, I decided to get really tough and stay home today (pictured above). This protracted, self-prescribed bed rest seems to be working in that I am feeling much better and wanting to do things, but I’ve seen what that can lead to! So instead I blog. Lucky you!

Thus ends today’s thrilling episode. Takeaway: Kids, only try this at home, because being sick in a hotel sucks.