She arrived at the hotel in the morning, three hours before me. She donned her pink and white striped pajamas, pulled the shades, and sprawled on her bed for a nap. The problem was that when the bellboy unlocked the door to our room that afternoon, I found a tiny, dark space with clothing thrown everywhere. The twin beds were pushed flush together, and a sleeping woman lay comatose across her bed, looking as if she’d escaped from Barbie prison wearing a pink and white uniform. The bellboy inched my suitcase into the room, while my new roommate removed her eye mask, and sat up with wild hair, looking like a crazy person.

“I can’t do this,” I told the bellhop and promptly went back to the front desk where I learned that there were no other rooms. I pleaded my case, even offering to sleep in a maid’s closet, but the answer was no. They managed to move the beds six inches apart, not nearly far enough, especially considering the wall-shaking snoring that emanated from the next bed. My roommate was a good sleeper. Unfortunately, I am not.