brisbane. the presidential suite
This (below) is a Jayco van, the deluxe model with the curtains and everything matching.
This, minus the girlie bits, is where up to eight men slept, and ate, and used the same shitter for up to three days when Green Island was letting loose in 1978. You know how this is because it is written – only a surfer knows the feeling –
Why is it when eight men eat the same food for fifteen meals, they don’t leave the same stink in the dunny?
They, the Marriott staff, like to show you the Presidential Suite – you, the upgraded complainer – are SHOWN into the palatial hallway, where you pause an instant, to examine what is beyond an open and adjoining door to the right.
A double room and en-suite, also available to the encumbent of the Presidential Suite. For his Press Secretary perhaps, or Monica Lewinsky back in the day.
We continue to parade through, the staff probably don’t get much practice at showing folks through these rooms, not everybody is a President, and these are his rooms. I believe Mr. Obama himself may enquire about a room reservation for next year’s G20, unless SBY beats him to it – and that’s only after he’s checked the phone connections.
Unfortunately a modest party of advertising toilers had not long departed after an hour’s conference in the boardroom, that left both the gin-palace and beer fridge all but dry. Also no rum. No Diet Coke.
No rum in the Brisbane Marriott Queensland Hotel: hereby indicted.
We soldiered on through the Presidential lounge room, the Presidential dining alcove, to the Presidential bedroom, then to the Presidential bathroom. Larger than the double room ensuite seen on the way in, a deeper width to the tiled marble. Fifteen bath-towels eighteen face-washers and two sinks. Hot and cold water.
Eventually the staff left and room service was asked for a couple of tins of coke; a good man travels with his own Captain Morgan. Then we sat and turned on Brisbane TV, or walked over to the window that looked down onto a narrow brown river, and across to a melancholy Hong Kong styled obelisk apartment block. The back of it, where the verandahs were big enough for only two chairs, your knees would be pressed up onto the glass.
No lights on at night. Nobody home.