The Red Lion is near the convention center, on Martin Luther King, Jr. Way (boulevard, street, whatever). Now for anyone who lives in a city, the following is common knowledge: Cities grant that distinctive street name to areas they hope will improve. In other words, they have a dream that all the hookers, drug dealers and gangbangers will move to someone elses city. This never happens.
So...since this was the lovely setting for our hotel, why should I be surprised that despite massive upgrades throughout the Red Lion chain, our room would have the hardest bed known to man. We woke with flailing dead arms, dangling like wet pasta. But you wanna know something, I didn't mind. My second story view of the Denny's smoking area more than made up for any physical discomfort.
You can imagine.
What I did mind was the two women that brought their dogs to the conference. I'm a dog lover and I was still perplexed. Dianna, my con buddy, suggested that these were simply companion dogs for the mentally ill. I would have preferred to turn around at the sound of the barking to find Barbara Cartland being wheeled through the halls in her four poster bed trailed by a team of stenographers. Barbara is the only author allowed to bring her dogs, is that clear?
Oh wait, is she dead?