1. Breakfast at the Hotel
The guest room in my dad’s condo in Ottawa was always, shall we say, a bit cramped.
The desk and the bookshelves that lined two walls and the old-school four-drawer file cabinets took up about a third of the space. The fold-out sofa bed took up another third. That left the remaining third wrapped around the periphery of the bed as a super narrow walkway in which we left our suitcases and inevitably tripped over each other trying to find our stuff for tomorrow. I don’t know how many visits it took before we started staying at a hotel down the street. In comparison, it felt like the Hilton — oh, wait. It was a Hampton Inn, which is a Hilton.
Hillary was in charge of the breakfasts in the lobby of the hotel. She kept the eggs and breakfast meats coming. And the coffee. And the yogurt and cereal and fruit and bagels and waffles and toast. She had helpers, but you could tell that they often were new on the job, and so Hillary generally did much of the work herself.
Around 9:00am, there were inevitably more people hovering around than there were seats at which to eat. And in the press of people serving up their food, kids dropped their eggs, people ignored the waffle-maker beeping and had to be reminded to flip it over, and the coffee sometimes ran low. Throughout all this, Hillary’s smile and laughter never ceased.
On one trip, there was some kind of convention so they moved the breakfast to a large conference room upstairs which meant Hillary had to push carts onto elevators and load and unload the food all while the hungry overflow crowd wondered where their food was and why the coffee had run out. Yet her smile and laughter never ceased.
Year after year, visit after visit, this was true. And when we returned, she always recognized us and greeted us like a sibling might, or a cousin. She was a joy to talk to. Her morning smile was a wonderful way to start the day, especially on cold days in the winter when the sun hadn’t yet come up very far.
2. Goodbye to Hillary
The man behind the counter explained everything about the room when I arrived to check in. He explained the room key. He explained the wifi. He explained how to park in the underground garage. And he explained when breakfast was served.
I leaned over the counter.
“Is Hillary still in charge of breakfasts?”
His eyed widened. “Oh, you’ve been here before.”
“A few times, yes.”
“Yes, she still works breakfasts,” he said.
It turned out that the next day was her day off. But on the day after that, sure enough, there she was. Bringing sustenance (and coffee) out from the back kitchen into the dining area.
When I saw her, I got up from my table and walked over to where Hillary was helping a boy flip the waffle machine. When he walked off, I tapped her on the shoulder.
“Hillary,” I said. “I am David. My wife Trudy and I …”
“Why yes!” she said as her smile grew. “How wonderful to see you again. Is Trudy here, then?” She looked over my shoulder, expecting Trudy to be somewhere over there.
I told her that Trudy had flown home, and that I was in town one last time to deal with some paperwork related to my dad’s estate. I introduced her to my brother, who had walked up behind us and was wondering I suppose how it was that I was chatting so familiarly with a stranger.
“Your father was a nice man.”
“I don’t think I’ll be back again,” I said and held out my arms. We hugged each other firmly.
“Well maybe you and Trudy might come back for a vacation.”
Maybe we might. Although I can attest that it is a very, very long drive.
