A work life involving a lot of plane travel and hotels can throw a lot of routines out. Or entrench them, and add a few more. For better or worse, I’m in the latter category.
At home I aim to get a run in every day. On a work trip I plan and scheme and go to far more trouble to make it happen, even if I find myself heading at night to the hotel gym, or getting dressed in my hotel room in Melbourne in July waiting for just enough of a hint of dawn to let me head out into the single degree temps for a brisk lap of the Tan.
I’ve made no secret of the running, but here are three valuable things I’ve learned through book tours that I think it’s time I passed on. It’s probably no coincidence that each of them either saves money or gets me something for nothing.
1. The Shampoo Cocktail
Let’s face it – if you’ve got straightforward hair, the differences between most shampoos get down to advertising, and where they erroneously place the acute symbol to make the name look French (try to at least pick a vowel, please). Other than that, I accept that some are creamy and some are clear. But, inconsequential tweaks in fragrance aside, that’s about it.
On the advice of an expert publicist late last century, I keep a toilet bag permanently packed, since it’s much easier than rounding up the individual items each time. Actually, I have two – a seriously compact one for two- or three-days trips and a full one for longer. In neither do I have room for massive amounts of shampoo.
Welcome to the shampoo cocktail. Four- and five-star hotels will always provide shampoo. Even quite a few motels do. So, my first step on arriving in any hotel room with a free creamy shampoo – I prefer creamy over clear – is to top up the bottle in my toilet bag, if it needs it.
Not only is the hair wash no different, but I try to kid myself into thinking the subtle shift of the fragrance with each addition keeps things interesting. And of course, it comes with my preferred budgetary implications: it’s free. In a year in which both the hotels and I are on top of our games, my travel shampoo budget is zero.
2. The Hot Chocolate
The four- or five-star hotel room comes with a notoriously over-priced minibar and a selection of free beverages – regulation teabags, coffee sachets or perhaps a vacuum-sealed lump of coffee for a plunger and two plump sachets of gourmet hot chocolate powder.
Step two after arrival, once my shampoo is topped up, is to place the two hot chocolate sachets in my bag. I tell myself I’m taking them home as a gift for my four-year-old son. And then, in transit, I decide the last thing he needs in his life is more hot chocolate. So, when I get home, I sneak them into the pantry behind the little-accessed Obscure Teas of the World section and from time to time, when it’s just me here on a workday, I drink the hot chocolates myself.
If you think I’m being mean to my son, tell yourself I bought him a dinosaur at the airport. Or a Mr Men book.
The point is, the gourmet hot chocolate in your room is yours to keep. The hotel wants you to take it. Don’t make them sad.
3. Room Laundry
I’ve saved the best till last. I run every day I can so, even on a short work trip, I generate my share of stinky clothes. Do I ask the hotel to launder them? No. At their prices, it would be cheaper for me to bin them and buy new ones but, even if that wasn’t a consideration, there’s every chance I’m moving on the next day, and I can’t tour the country leaving unfinished laundry in my wake. So, that means room laundry.
Room laundry is a science, and should be approached as such. It works for many items, but is at its best for manky running clothes. The return is huge (they’re not great if left unwashed) and, for running clothes, laundry standards don’t have to be particularly high to be more than good enough. On a longer trip, I might have some travel laundry detergent and handwash other items, but for running clothes on shortish trips, I take them in the shower after the run, rinse them in the soap/shampoo run-off, while stamping all over them and continuing until the water runs clear.
Then I wring them out good and hard, and here’s the bit you have to play close attention to: next, I spread a fresh towel out on the floor, spread my clothes out flat on the towel and then roll it up tightly lengthwise. Then I put a foot on one end of the towel, pick up the other and stand and twist the towel, putting some effort into it.
Then I shake the clothes from the towel and they’re most of the way to dry. If you can hang them overnight, they’ll dry every time. If you have to leave right away, you’re packing them merely damp in a plastic bag, and hanging them out can be agenda item 3 in your next hotel room later that day.
This system is close to perfect, but there’s one warning I have to give. The stamping, wringing and towel-twisting all involve exertion. If you’ve just been for a run and get dressed before the wringing and towel-twisting, there’s a real risk you’ll drench your fresh clothes with a new load of sweat. In the interests of not sweating out your clothes and not overheating and sweating when you least want to, room laundry is best performed nude.
Over-sharing? I’m not including pictures.
It’s a great system, but there is a risk. There’s always the fear that a well-intentioned staff member will appear while you’re mid-twist, and you’ll look like you’re doing some strange erotic dance, naked and wrestling a white towel snake of your own making. It’s not easy to explain anything to a stranger while fully nude, and particularly not easy to explain this.
In real life, I will continue to claim I have avoided such an encounter, though I’ve come dangerously close at times. I should really give a lot more thought to the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door, but when I get to my room on a tour I don’t have much mind left.
In fiction, though, I could go beyond the near miss. In making Andrew Van Fleet in Analogue Men a work-travel veteran, I could give him my approach to room laundry, but also give myself the liberty of a very different set of consequences …