Okay. It’s midnight, Airman and I have just driven the hour from Biloxi to New Orleans, and we’re both exhausted, having had one of the busiest days of our lives.
We check into the hotel, get to our room, and lo and behold, the adjoining room is occupied by a bunch of screaming teenagers who are apparently on some kind of a school trip or something. They’re also apparently unsupervised, because they’re making all kinds of noise, slamming the doors, calling their friends in other rooms, and trying to get into our room. This last one scared the hell out of me, for obvious reasons.
I ended up calling security at 12:30 am. What did security do? Nothing. The kids went to sleep, only to start fresh bright and early in the morning. Fortunately, they left the hotel for a while, giving us a reprieve while we got dressed to go to breakfast.
We got back from breakfast in dire need of a nap. (No, really. We did sleep.) These kids were back in their room, raising six kinds of hell. Fortunately, someone called downstairs, who, I think, talked to the “responsible” adult, who got the kids calmed down for about twenty minutes before the noise started.
Now, to the kids…
Look, you little hooligans. I know you may not be used to staying in hotels in the middle of downtown New Orleans, but that still does not give you the right to treat the experience like a slumber party. There are other people around you, over you, and under you who have paid for the privilege of a good nights’ sleep, just as you (or your parents) have.
Just because there is a door there, doesn’t mean you can open it. There’s a reason it’s locked, punks. It’s because the hotel does not want you to go through it, because my husband and I are behind that door. No, we don’t want to meet you.
No, wait. We do. We want to meet you so we can find whoever’s supposed to be supervising you and let them know what you’re up to. I know you may be kids, and you may be taken by the novelty of the hotel experience, but that’s still no excuse for poor behavior.
Robin