Temporary “Diva” tattoos take the place of chocolates on the pillow. In the bathroom, while drawing a luxurious bubble bath, you can read the list of Diva quotes from tough ass chics like Mae West.
This of course propels me to buy a bottle of La Crema red for the room, knowing that a bubble bath wouldn’t be complete without it.
The bed is so lush that I uncustomarily take late afternoon naps with all the blinds drawn before waking up at sundown all three nights of my stay to get ready for the night ahead.
If you stay on the seventh floor, your room key will get you into the Diva lounge for breakfast every morning where a couch and magazines offer a nice, intimate pocket to reflect on the day ahead.
Of course all this subconscious pampering to the female ego has me feeling a little out of control. I forego jeans for swanky dresses and joystick boots and stay out too late with friends from North Beach to watch the Ravonettes play and then meet another friend out to close a bar down. Cigarettes and Manhattans and falling into the bed dressed only to batter an eyelash before falling into cool slumber.
By the third night I am not thinking about clocks, responsibilities, the work I have left to do, or the schedule. I am working on my laptop in bubble baths, drinking wine at three p.m., buying expensive lotions at Walgreens for my room, dancing till two a.m. with new friends, napping in the afternoons, and making paintings out of cabernet and ball point pens on the cobalt blue rug.