Hotel Coffee

I'm back in Charm City for work. I've been here for three days and will head home tomorrow. Three days means three mornings of hotel coffee. Here's what I've decided - there's really good coffee, the kind of coffee that makes you happy to be alive and addicted to caffiene. Then there's OK coffee. The kind of coffee that responds well to help in the form of sugar and cream. Then there's bad coffee. This includes weak coffee and coffee that only dreams of a rich taste. It's coffee that has good intentions but just went awry.

Finally, there's hotel coffee. Hotel coffee is the coffee that they leave in your room. The coffee that only the serious addicts will drink. The coffee made from the beans that Juan Valdez and his mule stepped on as they made their way to the good beans. The coffee that tastes like liquified cardboard. The coffee that makes you think that your last caffiene-deprivation headache wasn't so bad. You can stand another day of misery.

But instead, you make the coffee. You try not to think about everyone else who has used this coffee pot as you pour the water into the machine. You tear open the coffee package, careful not to tear the pre-packaged coffee filter because you've done this before and there's just no salvaging the torn package. You also make sure that you have the regular coffee, because if you're going to suffer, you're damn sure going to get a fix. No decaf for you. You put the package in the basket, seam-side down. You're not sure why the seam needs to face down, but that's what the directions say, so that's what you do.

You hit the button and wait. When it's done brewing, you ignore the slightly rancid smell and pour yourself a cup. You know you're in a fancy hotel when there are actual coffee mugs, not styrofoam cups wrapped in plastic. Before you pour, you check to make sure that the black mug is right-side up, because you remember when your half-asleep friend didn't and tried to pour coffee into the bottom of the mug. You remember how you laughed as she exclaimed and jumped, but you know it won't be funny if it happens to you. You thank your friend for her cautionary tale.

Now, the good part. You open the condiments package and remove the envelopes containing the creamer and sugar - both powder. No matter the hotel, the condiments are all the same, two packets joined together for all eternity. No liquid in hotels. You tap the creamer, hoping against hope that the powder will slide to one side of the envelope and you can tear it open without spilling the precious powder on the counter. The creamer doesn't shift. It never does. You spill some, as you always do. As you dump the remaining powder into the cup, you pray that it dissolves because sometimes, the creamer is a brick that floats around in the coffee, daring the hot liquid to dissolve it. This is a bad omen. After the creamer, you repeat the process with the sugar. Then, using the elegant and graceful plastic stirs, you mix your concoction. It turns a slighltly lighter shade of brown. You turn a slightly lighter shade of green.

Finally, you drink. You drink quickly because you know that hotel coffee can only get worse as it cools. You're certain that the coffee is eating away at your insides, but you drink anyway as you count the minutes until you're back at home with your coffee and real cream.