I am a hotel snob. Period. End of Story.

As you might have ascertained, I like to travel but I like to travel well. I did all the camping out I ever intend to do while in the Boy Scouts and in the National Guard.

As with many of you, my idea of roughing it is a Friday and Saturday night at a Ramada Inn.

Given any choice at all I will stay in some member of the Starwood chain - Westins, Sheratons, etc. Given my druthers I will stay in a Four Seasons.

On The Cruise there was a section of the Lido Deck which had a pool but also had a retractable roof. When we were in port, the roof was open. When we were sailing, sailing oer' the bounding main, it was closed. Other pools were open to the wind and weather.

The Lad suggested that sitting at the pool with the roof closed was like sitting in a Holidome.

Here's a Traveler's Tip: Never make jokes about a Holidome because as certain as I was in Des Moines, you will find yourself in a Holiday Inn in a room overlooking the ...

And guess what the aroma is from the Holidome? Keerekt: Chlorine.

The Holiday Inn Airport is, as advertised, at the airport in Des Moines on Fleur Drive (I had no CHOICE but to end up in Paris). It is 30 seconds from the front door of the terminal, but 30 seconds in Des Moines in the winter is a looooong time.

In spite of that, I have a warm spot in my heart for Iowa. It was the site of my first big-time political race. I was the press secretary or a guy running for U.S. Senate in the 1980 cycle - Tom Stoner. Our opponent in the primary election was Congressman Chuck Grassley.

Inasmuch as you have never heard of Senator Stoner, but you have now been hearing about Senator Grassley for the past 20 years you can guess how it all turned out.

But here's the neat part. 1980 was a Presidential cycle. Every political reporter in the near solar system comes through Iowa at some point in a Presidential cycle.

That was the year that Ambassador George H.W. Bush was battling for the GOP nomination against Governor Ronald Reagan (hard to remember those old titles, eh?).

Because in Iowa in the winter there's not all that much to do, anytime anyone puts on any kind of political event everyone shows up.

Here's a question: Will Joe Lieberman show up at a pig roast? We'll just have to watch for that.

Dear Mr. Mullings. Are you knocking someone's religion?
No. I also wonder whether Al Sharpton would show up at a Gefilte Fish dinner.
Just watch it, is all.
I'm watching. I'm watching.

It was during that 1980 cycle that I first came into contact with many of the big time reporters with whom I regularly rub shoulders today. I rub shoulders with them because I, in essence, stalk them, but not so's they'd have to get a restraining order against me or anything.

Again.

It was also during that cycle that I first met the brothers Bush - George W. and Jeb who regularly came to Iowa to help their dad.

In the end, Ronald Reagan won the nomination and picked George H.W. to be his Vice Presidential running mate which, after some twists and turns, led to George W. being the President at exactly the right time in the history of the world, so it all worked out.

I am very good at preparing for speeches. I don't speak from a text but I take the time to actually find out what the group's issues are and look from some inside info from Washington about those issues.

In this case a friend from the Speakers' office was available and he walked me through the legislative agenda items that Speaker Hastert and Majority Leader DeLay are contemplating.

I had packed two suits, two pairs of khaki slacks, a sport jacket and enough shirts, ties and unmentionables (wasn't there one of those PBS-British-TV-Is-Better-Than-Ours series in which one of the main characters call them, "smalls?") to see me through to Paris.

I was, as I noted last time, a bit concerned about the lack of transfer time from my commuter flight to the overseas jet in Cincinnati (I was scheduled to arrive in Cincinnati at 6:20 for a 6:50 departure to Paris) so I dressed for the speech and packed my bags before I went down to the ballroom for lunch.

My Des Moines-Cincinnati flight didn't leave until quarter-till-four and my speech was going to be over by about 12:30, but I wanted to BE at the airport as early as possible the better to anguish over whether I was going to make my flight.

I met with the organizers and the officers of the Associated General Contractors of Iowa; ate the portion of the meal which was allowed to me under the terms of the Akins diet, and stood up to speak: The Big-Timer from Washington, gonna tell the Iowans whut's whut.

As soon as I got into the lights on stage I realized I was wearing the jacket from one suit and the trousers from the other.

Mr. Suave, indeed.

If you find yourself in that kind of a situation you can either ignore it - which you can't do because even if its difficult to see YOU know it so you think everyone, including the guy in the back corner of the room, is stifling a giggle at your expense - or you can 'fess up to it.

Which I did.

The speech was fine. In fact I thought it went very well. I included a story - true, by the way - about when I had been there 20 years before and saw the miles and miles and miles of cornfields and said to the other people in the campaign van that I couldn't wait until it ripened so we could stop along the way and pick up lots of fresh corn on the cob.

I noticed - because I do this kind of thing a lot and I've become attuned to the reactions - that everyone in the van had stopped breathing.

"What?" I asked.

The candidate - who is one of the worlds nicest people - informed me that what I was looking at was FEED corn not sweet corn and it only really tasted good to the hogs and cattle.

What did I know? I was about 37 until I realized eggs and milk started somewhere other than the cooler at the A&P.

So the speech is over, everyone tells me how much they enjoyed it (which doesn't sound like it should be important but it is) and I gathered my roll-aboard, my computer case, my not-a-European-Carry-All shoulder bag, put on my overcoat and my scarf and got the old guy in the lobby to take me back across the street to the airport in the Green Holiday Inn van.

I changed into my traveling clothes in the accessible stall in the men's room, and sat back for a couple of hours to await my plane.

The ticket agent acceded to my request to be in a bulkhead seat so I could get out fast; but I had forgotten that you can't move until your roll-aboard bag - which is too large to fit in the overheads of commuter jets - is brought to the FRONT OF THE WING so I was going to have to wait anyway.

The plane arrived on time and departed about 10 minutes late, but the flight attendant said it was a one-hour-nine-minute flight so I was fine.

Except it was a one-hour-20-minute flight so I had used up all of my cushion and was now back to the half-hour transfer time.

When the bell bonged to get up I did. Put on my stuff, and stood in the door looking like a sprinter ready for the gun at the 100 meter finals. The flight attendant opened the door, I went down the stairs and waited and waited and waited while the baggage handlers unloaded the gate-checked bags of everyone who had EVER flown from Des Moines to Cincinnati and were taking their sweet time about it, too, thank you very much.

My bag had gone on last because I was sitting in the first row and had to wait for my row to be called. That meant my bag was out first, but was on the bottom of the stack on the luggage cart. Don't they understand that I am O*F C*O*U*N*S*E*L, thank you very much?

DON'T YOU PEOPLE REALIZE I HAVE TO MAKE A PLANE TO PARIS WHICH IS LEAVING AT 6:50? DO YOU THINK I'M JUST GOING TO PHILADELPHIA? NO! I AM NOT JUST GOING TO PHILADELPHIA, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

At long last everyone who had ever flown from Des Moines to Cincinnati got their bag off the top of mine and I began the trek through Terminal C to the transfer bus (which, of course, was jammed to the gills) to Terminal B; found my flight was leaving from the far end of that terminal (Gate 5) and headed off in that direction with the clock tick...tick...ticking.

I ... will ... not ... run ... through ... an ... airport.

Period.

But I walked pretty fast and ran over at least one older woman who was in my way on the moving sidewalk and WAS NOT STANDING ON THE RIGHT SO I COULD WALK ON THE LEFT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

In the end, I got to the gate, showed my passport and my ticket, rolled on board, put my things in the overhead, got my book out, and accepted a glass of wine ("Yes, thank you. Very much") with still five minutes to spare.

Being me, I immediately began whining to myself about why the plane was just sitting there.

Now, back to the hotel business.

When this trip to Paris came up one of the partners at American Continental Group leaned over and asked me where I would be staying.

I answered, "The George V" which is pronounced "Joorjh Sank" the Four Seasons in Paris.

I, frankly, expected a knowing laugh at the good joke, but he simple nodded and went back to what he was doing.

Naturally, I immediately ran to my O*F C*O*U*N*S*E*L office and got on the horn to American Express travel and told them to book me a room at the Joorjh Sank in Paris and be quick about it if you please.

It was 650 Euros a night. As of this writing a Euro is about $1.08 give-or-take. That means my stay in Paris was going to cost someone about $700 a night. If, as the schedule suggested, I was going to be there for five nights we are looking at a hotel bill of over $3,750 by the time taxes, title, and dealer prep were figured in.

Let me make this quick. I am NOT staying at the Joorgh Sank or any other five star hotel, sank you very much.

When my masters at ACG found out where I was staying they suggested most strongly that I take the advice of our colleagues here in Paris and stay at a very nice, very new hotel right around the corner from their offices - the Derby Alma. A Best Western.

"A Beh? A Beh? A Beh?" I stammered into the phone.

"A Best WESTERN?"

Oui, mon ami.

As it happens, a Best Western in Europe is not exactly the same as a Best Western in the U.S. and it was only €150 (that's the sign for the Euro) per night which meant I could stay for the entire five nights for about what one night would cost me at the Joorjh Whatever.

Of course, you could also make the case that if I slept under a bridge on the Rive Gauche or the Rive Droite it would be more or less free, but I was on very weak ground and I knew it, so I decided to go and, if I hated it, just move.

The first room I was sent to was about the size of a walk-in closet. And not a big walk-in at that. In fact there was barely enough room to move around the bed and that was only if you walked like one of those drawings on ancient Egyptians you know with your hands and feet all pointing in the same direction as your head and your shoulders?

Now you're knocking other people's ancestors?
Are you certain you want to keep reading this?
Yes. I want to see if anything - ANYTHING - happens.

The Hotel Gods, having had their fun with me, arranged it such that the room had not been cleaned, so I pulled my stuff back down to the lobby and so informed the woman behind the counter.

She was very apologetic and I allowed as to how I would be happy to sit in the lobby with a cup of coffee while it got done. I was filled with the milk of human patience because I wouldn't be at the Derby Alma Best Western for more than about eight hours, total, before I declared myself a non-Best-Western-Zone and moved somewhere else.

The woman came to me and said she had moved me to a different room and she knew for a fact that it was ready.

Drat. I went up and it was much better. A corner room looking out over the Boulevard Rapp. Not bad, at all.

It was now about 10 in the morning on Thursday. I had been up more or less constantly for about 26 hours and I was beginning to fade. Especially when I looked at my watch and saw that it was about four AM at Mullings Central.

Nevertheless, trouper that I am, I showered, changed and headed over to the Embassy of Côte d'Ivoire.

Next: I walk just about everywhere.

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