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People keep asking me why everyone makes jokes about me and bananas. No, it’s not for any nefarious reason you can imagine. Here…

Notes from The Barefoot Booktour, a five city tour to promote THE BAREFOOT PRINCESS:

Thursday — hop three flights staring at 5:20am on the west coast and ending at 6 pm in Buffalo NY. I leave in the dark and land in the dark. Take a cab to the An Unnamed Really Expensive Hotel. They have ONE valet. The cab sits in line for ten minutes while said valet parked the three cars in front of us. The cab driver puts the suitcases, which weigh a ton because of promotional materials, on the sidewalk. There is no bellboy. There is no bell captain. I tug the huge suitcases toward the doors. One door is revolving—small, no way through. The other is a double regular door. A guy who’s standing there waiting for a car from the ONE valet opens it for me, then watching me struggle to shove one suitcase through and drag the other one, which takes me an embarrassingly long time. The second door is mine to handle. I get into the lobby. Placed looks great. But no bell captain or bell boy.

Okay.

I go to the desk and check in. The people are friendly. They ask if I want reservations for the steakhouse which they say is one of the top ten in the country. I say no, I got up at 3 am and I want room service and bed. They say I can get a meal from the steak house through room service.

Okay.

“>I say, “Can I get help with my bags?” Because they sure as hell aren’t offering. So they get a manager who looks at the bags, sends me to my rooms and gets a cart. He brings them right up. He doesn’t offer to fill the ice. He doesn’t turn on the heat (it’s BUFFALO in FEBRUARY) He doesn’t stick the bags on the rack. He leans them against the wall. I’m too busy staring at the large room with nothing in it—okay there’s a desk, but how about an easy chair? with table and lamp? to notice. Oh, and the bed which is hard.

Okay.

I go to the phone, call room service, ask where the menu is for the steak house. They’ll send one up, then she adds, “But it’s 45 minutes to an hour to get anything out of the steakhouse because they’re busy.” I haven’t eaten since six this morning. So I order steak off their menu.

Not okay.

I order medium. I get well. I order a salad. The lettuce is wilted. I order the roasted potatoes. They are swimming in oil. They ask if I want rolls. I say no. They send them anyway, thank God. They are those soft yellow rolls (ick) and they’re smushed, but in desperation I eat one. I eat the steak (scarf it, actually), and as many of the wilted greens as I can stomach. And have a glass of wine. Then I go down to the bar and get a double cognac to kill the incipient food poisoning.

Friday — I order breakfast. Oatmeal, a bowl of fruit and OJ. It comes late, and the lady says, “Someone’s coming behind me with your fruit.” Figures. She puts the tray on the desk. I pull the top off. The oatmeal has scum on it, and I find out the hard way there are lumps. I spit one back into the bowl. There’s a knock at the door. It’s her again—and she hands me a BANANA. And she says, “Do you want this, too?” And pulls a second banana out of her ARMPIT where she was carrying it…

“> IN BED WITH THE DUKE is on the shelves now! Luckily for my fruit intake, I’m not going on book tour at all…

What about you? What horrific experiences have you had in hotels?  While traveling? Come back to Facebook and tell all. I’m in the mood to be sympathetic.