Twenty years ago I drove
thirty-five miles to Pasadena
to see a patient. When I opened the trunk to get my bag, it wasn’t there. I had
left it at home. I drove back to retrieve it.
I mention this because
last week I made a visit to the Hyatt Regency in Long Beach, thirty-five miles away. I had my
bag, but when I consulted my invoice while waiting for the elevator, there was
no room number.
I recalled how it
happened. I had never been to that Hyatt Regency, so I had stopped filling out
the invoice at home to look up its address on the internet. I found it, copied
it down, and forgot to add the room number from my telephone notepad. Departing
from your routine is always perilous.
Worse, the patient was a
woman. In our sexist society, when a couple checks in, it’s the man whose name
goes in the register – and couples sometimes don’t share a last name. That was
the case this time as I listened with a sinking heart as the desk clerk assured
me that the guest list contained no such person.