cigarette smoke and debatably small micro in the (Galt) House

We once again stayed at the Galt House while in Louisville for Irish dancing Thanksgiving weekend.  Nice hotel.  I guess.  

I decided to save some money and not valet . . . until I drove around the parking garage in search of a vacant spot and decided it might be easier to convince Curly to quit dancing than locate a spot.  I surrendered the additional $8 a night for the valet service.

This was our gear.  The microwave is hidden
in the canvas bag under the blue
blanket with the white polar bears on it.

Keep in mind that we were traveling with a VERY full cooler on wheels that threatened to rip my arm off if I dragged it for too long without stopping and, hey - I have somewhat impressive upper body strength.  I also packed my brand new 'tiny' microwave.  At .7 cubic feet (?) or whatever, let's just say Best Buy employees can label that small, but I am here to tell you that in the year 2019 there is still no such thing as a SMALL microwave.  

The Bellhop brought us into our room, which was a suite.  Similar layout to Embassy Suites, but bigger.  In case my worst fears developed into a reality - plenty of place to camp out in the large bathroom should Mini and I started vomiting.  

It is these kinds of things that a Mom who has 'been there' thinks of, especially under the current puke-possibility circumstances.  About 7 years ago, Mini puked every 12 minutes all night long.  I was in St. Louis in a hotel with the 4 middle kids for an Irish music competition.  The bathroom was standard issue aka small.  She slept on the bathroom floor all night.  I didn't sleep, which made the drive back to St. Louis a scary, death-defying activity.    

Anyway, the Bellhop gave us some weird speech about which lights to turn on first in the morning based on the light-bulbs that were being used.  Some would be super bright and we would not want them on in our 'zombie mode after just waking up.'  My guess:  he missed his calling to work in a hardware store.  It was odd, but just the kind of thing Curly could not stop imitating every time someone switched on a light.  

Before he left, Curly pointed out the smell.  I smelled it too.  It was NOT GOOD.  It may have been cigarette smoke, but someone had sprayed enough perfume-ie Febreeze to hide the odor of elephant dung.  So who knew?  I asked Mr. Light-bulb if this was a smoking room.  "Nope, this is a smoke free hotel."  I could have figured that one out considering microwaves translate to fire hazards to them for God's sake.

I had to pee.  Bad.  I wish I had demanded another room at that point, but I didn't.  Instead, Mr. LED left.  I peed and set up the microwave and made dinner.  My headache returned with a vengeance.  I assume it was from:  1.  per-Thanksgiving cooking and baking, 2. packing , 3. skipping sleep with a puking kid, 4. stress.  I was thrilled that I thought to pack cans of soup for Curly, who was bummed that she didn't get to eat my sloppy Joe's.   

I unloaded three days of food into the fridge.  I decided to put ice in the cooler to cool the applesauce,  juice boxes, and water bottles that didn't fit in the fridge.  After leaving the room for a minute to get ice, the overpowering smell of cigarette smoke hit me in the face.  I moaned.