Nice enough place. The free breakfast was excellent, but they’ve out-sourced room service to another company. The menu looked nice, but pricy. Watching Deadpool would have cost me $17.95. I passed on that (and then saw it free on the return plane trip!). The most interesting thing about the hotel was the van driver.
His name is Talal. He speaks Arabic. On my first trip to the airport it was just me and an Arab guest. They had a lively conversation. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known Talal was an Arab. I don’t ask those questions anymore, because too many people ask for the wrong reasons these days. I have no idea what country he’s from.
He probably left the area as a refugee, though, because he spent a few years in the Philippines before making it to America. He’s a nice man, soft spoken, with kindhearted instincts. He has a friendly, knowing smile. He’s probably seen a lot.
Talal obviously appreciates it when a guest reads his name tag and calls him by name; stops by sometimes to talk with him; and tips. I’m glad that he has joined the American mosaic.
Talal, by the way, has a huge scar on the right side of his forehead, high up on the scalp. The wound is old, but you can see that it was deep enough to shatter some bone. I’d love to have asked him about it, and when I was thirty-five years old I would have. Now I just leave myself to wonder about such things.
He’s probably about fifty-five years old. He takes blood pressure medication and tries to keep his weight down, with limited success. He does the best that he can, like the rest of us.
Bon chance, my friend. I wish you well.