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in the nightstand drawer. If I’m lucky, I walk away with a bag full of horribly drying mini shampoo bottles that I will never use but take anyway so I can add them to the collection of hotel freebies I keep hidden in my bathroom.
    An aside about the hotel freebies: There are a few motivations at play. First, I tend to collect. Doesn’t matter what it is; I’ll collect it. Second, I enjoy the sport of raiding a maid’s unattended cart. Third, I’m an actress with no steady income, so my life is spent in constant preparation for Rock Bottom, a land where I could very possibly end up too poor to buy shampoo and where I would be forced to stand in a cold shower with wet and latherless hair. But now, thanks to my foresight, should that time come, I may not be able to eat, but damnit, I’ll have clean hair and a couple dozen plastic disposable shower caps.
    And one thing I’ve learned: The kind of freebies provided directly reflects the class of hotel you’re staying in. Bottom rung would be a place that only provides an infuriatingly tiny wedge—alas, a splinter—of soap, and a sad little bottle of shampoo. A step up would involve conditioner, lotion, and a shower cap, sometimes even face soap. Higher still would be a place with mini sewing kits, as everyone knows that the finer establishments encourage their guests to mend their clothes. Above that I’ve yet to encounter, though in my fantasies there are free little bottles of Chanel products and those great oversized fluffy robes, which the hotel wouldn’t charge you hundreds of dollars for, should one accidentally find its way into your suitcase.
    At any rate, it’s been a rare and lucky day when I’ve encountered the mini sewing kits—and even in those places, I was afraid to touch the bedspread and insisted on wearing flip-flops in the shower. So, getting ready to head off to Detroit, I packed my conditioner, lotion, face soap, and flip-flops. I was prepared for the worst and resigned to using their shampoo at least until I got my per diem, which would then be blown on one horribly expensive shampoo containing some inane ingredient like white truffles or crushed diamonds, something that would ultimately make no difference to my hair and leave me feeling so guilty it would be months till I bought another bottle.
    But then something happened. I arrived in Detroit—during what I swear was a monsoon—and was taken to a place that lacked a pulsating neon MOTEL ! DISCOUNT ROOMS ! sign. Utterly confused, I played along with what I knew was a cruel mistake and checked in to a beautiful hotel. We’re talking crystal chandeliers, cherrywood-lined walls, and a lobby with a fireplace where continental breakfasts would never ever be served.
    An actual bellboy led me down the hall and stepped out of the way once he’d opened the door to Room 611; he then waited for me to stride inside. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t because what I saw was dark walnut living room furniture, flowers on the coffee table and dining room table, and French doors that led to the bedroom. (A bedroom!) So naturally I assumed I’d been brought to meet the director, which pissed me off because the shirt I was wearing had fallen victim to the ill-fated combination of a Bloody Mary and turbulence, and I was quite certain the humidity and rain had caused my hair to grow taller. Taller hair is never a good thing. Where was this director who insisted on seeing me at my worst? I stood at the threshold and scanned the room. No one was there. In fact, I didn’t see any luggage or signs of inhabitance. The bellboy was now watching me with concern. Tentatively I stepped inside. This couldn’t be my room, could it? My suite?
    It was. And it got better. In the large marble bathroom was a huge, gorgeous, cat-piss-free bathtub—with water pressure, I guessed, unlike my little apartment where if anyone in any part of the building flushed a toilet, your hopes of a relaxing bath would fizzle and you’d end up