Aloft

I love to travel and stay in hotels. The cooler, sleeker, and the more amenities, the better. I like the rooms to be clean, super clean. And I love interesting hotel lobbies—some are modern, some historical, some are full of Italian glass, some have coffee shops or restaurants, and some have gift shops. I love hotels!

On one particular trip, we stayed at an Aloft Hotel near Boston. Again, a business trip. I was excited. I hadn't stayed at this particular brand of hotel before. It was new and modern, had a kitchen, and accepted dogs. When I first walked into the room, there was a closet on the left and a bathroom on the right. Once through the hallway, past the closet, was a long wall with the kitchen on it. It started with a microwave oven, a cooktop, a sink, a dishwasher, and a refrigerator. The backsplash was a cool translucent green with small subway tiles. It had solid surface countertops, and the appliances were all stainless steel. Off to the right of the room stood a comfy sofa, a king-sized bed, and a large flat panel TV. The back wall was all windows with rolled-up blinds; it had a loft-type feel, and I really like it.

We settled in that first evening, got the dog all cozy and comfy, and decided to make some popcorn in our microwave oven and watch a movie. It was a nice thought. I put the popcorn into the microwave, started pouring the Diet Coke—turned my back for just a second — and then smelled something funny.

Yep, the popcorn was on fire! The room began to fill with smoke, the dog began to whine, and I flew into action. I started yelling—open the windows, hurry! I grabbed the popcorn and threw it into the sink, I put our terrified dog into the bathroom, and just then, the hotel fire alarms began to go off—the entire hotel, all the alarms! And then the phone started ringing—are you OK? asked the hotel manager. We assured her that we were fine, and as we explained our situation, there was a knock at the door. Hotel security. Red-faced, I answered the door. Yes, we are fine; no, we don't need the fire department; yes, the room smells bad; and yes, we'd like another room, please.

After things calmed down, we retrieved our trembling dog from the bathroom, repacked our suitcases, and moved into a nice, fresh-smelling room. Everything went smoothly after that—until the next morning, when we went down for breakfast, and the room was abuzz with the news of last night's excitement. We played it cool, though, never letting on that our popcorn had caught on fire and caused all the commotion.

We haven't returned to that hotel, and we haven't made popcorn in a hotel room in a very long time.

I still laugh a little when I think about it. Why do things like this seem to happen to me? That's what I'd like to know!