Sean encouraged all of us to take extra sandwiches back to our rooms, which had refrigerators, and so I took two. At 12:30, my business in Orlando concluded, I went to the front desk of the hotel to extend my stay.
“I’m sorry, but we have other guests with reservations,” the clerk informed me. I read her name off her badge.
“Betsy, the airport is closed. Where are these guests coming from that need my room?” I noticed that my sweaty palms were leaving damp spots on the cool marble registration desk.
“They may be coming in from coastal regions when the hurricane hits,” she said.
Ah.
“I’m here for a conference. Do you have any suggestions on where I could go?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.
“Everyone in Disney Springs is booked at this point. I’m sorry that I don’t have a better answer for you. Please check back with us tomorrow morning.”
I felt panicky. I’m not one to make a scene, or beg for mercy from strangers, and so I just stood at the registration desk with my heart pounding. I have my faults, but procrastination is not among them. I couldn’t fathom waiting until the next morning to learn whether I had to leave the hotel. Betsy, her bad news delivered, had taken to studying some papers in front of her. After a few awkward moments, I walked away.
I left the lobby and sat in front of the hotel on a concrete bench. At first it was good to get outside; the hotel no longer felt like welcome shelter. But the winds were strong and unsettling; street signs clattered. The odd piece of trash floated across the drive. The low grade headache that had been with me since I woke up had intensified. I took two Tylenol. My emotional discomfort was on par with the unnatural swaying of the palm trees. I took a Valium. I can’t believe Disney is kicking me out, was all I could think, over and over.
My cousin Simon, who also lived in the Midwest, was part-owner of a vegan restaurant in Orlando and had business partners in the area. I was much more comfortable relying on my family than I was arguing with Besty’s supervisors in a hotel chain that undoubtedly had a long history of careful policies around hurricane management. Disney Springs felt like a bigger foe than I could successfully challenge.
I texted Simon and told him what was going on. Indeed, he knew people in Orlando who could be counted on in an emergency. I said I might need a place to stay for a few days. Might. My situation was up in the air. Simon reached out, found someone in less than an hour, and told me all I had to do was make a phone call Saturday morning when I learned about my room status.
I went back inside and took the stairs to the gift shop on the lower level. They had several racks of books, and I bought a recent best-seller. They were also well-stocked in Disney memorabilia. I originally planned to do that year’s Christmas shopping for my eight young nieces and nephews at Disney, but I took a pass on the rack of mouse ears, placemats with characters from half a dozen movies, and elbow-length pink princess gloves with matching scepters for five-year-olds. I’d heard that Disney teaches its employees: “The way to your wallet is through your heart” but I was not feeling warm and fuzzy about laying out hundreds of dollars on Disney merchandise. I returned to the lobby.
“Betsy, can you tell me whether the hotel’s generator is strong enough to power the air conditioning and the elevators if the power goes out?”
She smiled reassuringly, “Absolutely.”
If my husband Scott were with me, he would have said, “The pox on Betsy and her assurances.” His cynicism was often comforting. In this case, I chose to believe her and didn’t ask to move to a lower floor. The Valium was working. I went back to my room and scouted the stairwells in case I needed to evacuate from the seventh floor in the dark. I turned on the TV and caught up on the weather. Hurricane Matthew was still coming for us. Local news showed pictures of the deserted corridors of Orlando International Airport. Disney had closed for the first time since 2004.
With a hint of excitement, the neatly coiffed CNN anchor announced that night’s curfew from the safety and security of a sterile newsroom. I’d never been in a curfew and found it stifling. Knowing that there were additional police patrols did not make me feel safer; it made me feel claustrophobic.
I spent the day reading and sneaking peeks out my window, afraid of what I would see next. When the bar opened at 4:30, I took my book down and ordered a daiquiri. I struck up a conversation with Don, the bartender. He’d been working at the hotel for about a year. He had a wait-and-see attitude about the hurricane.
“It doesn’t bother you to be working during a hurricane?” I asked him.
“What’s the alternative? Might as well be earning,” he replied. “This happens every year. And we really are well inland. This is where people come to get away from the storms.”
“CNN seems to think this whole county is in danger,” I replied.
“It’s a big county. The city will take precautions, but you never really know until it’s over. I try not to worry about things I can’t control, or about things that haven’t happened yet. Orlando is my home. I’ll stay whether the storm hits us or not. Besides, I’m a renter.” Don asked if I wanted another drink.
“Sure.” To hell with moderation, I reasoned through the frosty rum. I looked at the time on my phone. My husband was just finishing work. We texted and arranged to co-watch Netflix on our devices later that evening. I went back to my room with my daiquiri and returned to compulsively watching CNN. Reporters in slickers were standing on deserted beaches in the pouring rain discussing how dangerous it was for Floridians who chose not to evacuate.
My mother’s youngest brother, Greg, lived in Ft. Lauderdale. He’s an international pilot for American Airlines and had always been good to me. Once, when I was five or six, he bought me one of those enormous, round, rainbow lollipops. It’s the only time I remember having one, and it forever cemented his place in my heart.
That evening, he called my hotel room to make sure I was OK. He heard from my mom that I was coming to Orlando for work, and was checking in. I told him I was in limbo with the hotel but that his son Simon had found me a place to stay in the city. He was appalled.
“What?” He roared. “They can’t throw you out in the middle of a hurricane! What room are you in? I’m calling them right now.”
I put up a feeble, 15-second protest and then let him take over. I was tired of feeling buffeted by factors beyond my control and willing to let someone else take on some of the burden. I was alone in Orlando, and the resources I could rely on, given the constraints of my personality and experience, were exhausted.
He called the hotel and got results. Maybe it was because he had the authority of a mature man. Maybe he guilted them, or threatened them. Whatever the reason, they offered me an upgrade (to a suite with a bar), but I was hunkered down, and I didn’t want to move. In the end, they guaranteed my room until the airports re-opened, which was everything I wanted. I don’t mind admitting that it felt awesome when my Uncle Greg stepped in and saved me. Knights in shining armor are underrated.
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