Now I Know Why The Floor Was Concrete

This might run a little long though I hope you still enjoy it.  Today I’m thankful for my mother’s unflappability.

We visited Reykjavik in 2014.  Our return flight left Keflavik in the afternoon so we landed late in the evening.  We both had an additional flight.  We scheduled a layover long enough that we could get a hotel room and full night’s sleep.

I wanted to find an acceptable hotel offering a free shuttle to the airport the next morning.  Most hotels have shuttles but they can cost as much as a nice dinner.  I eventually found a place with fair reviews, advertising a free shuttle.

A cheerful driver picked us up at the airport.  The hotel concierge greeted us as we walked in, from behind a substantial pane of glass.  We were shown to a very clean room, complete with concrete floor and sturdy deadbolt.  We ordered pizza (actually quite tasty), blocked the door with a chair and had a quiet night.  Our drive to the airport and return flights were uneventful.

It wasn’t until I finally got home and scoured the hotel website that I noticed the discreet mention of “hourly rates.”  I had booked my mother and me into what was essentially a love hotel.  I was mortified.  My mother thought the entire experience was exceedingly funny, and did it all with a broken fibula.  I have to say that everyone at the hotel treated us very kindly, as we were clearly out of place.

Bad Art

Today I’m thankful for bad art.

I’ve covered most of my walls in art that is meaningful to me.  I’ve got prints, photos, a couple of paintings, even some sculptural ceramic pieces.  I keep the stuff that just doesn’t “fit” in a spare closet.  Once something is mine I don’t get rid of it but I don’t always want to hang everything.

One particular piece was residing in the closet.  It was a gift from the artist, who is also a very close relative.  It isn’t like anything else I have and it was unexpected.  The relative visited and happened to look in the closet, seeing the gift.  They didn’t say anything but I could tell they were disappointed.

I felt terrible so I hung the damn thing in a fairly prominent place.  It still didn’t match any of the things I’d bought but it was now displayed.  The relative visited a few months later, saw the piece in its new place of honour and said “Wow, that is bad.  I’ve done much better.”  My jaw dropped.  It’s still hanging because I don’t even know what to do with it now.  I can’t make this stuff up.

The Museum of Bad Art is a wonderful idea.  It is truly hilarious.  I’ve considered sharing my unique piece with them.  All rights to their material are theirs.