I hunched over the hotel desk in Rochester, Michigan preparing my paperwork for the day and drinking so-called coffee.
My caffeine standards are at a remarkable low, rivaling the nadir of taste I permitted after daily facing what New York delis call coffee and deciding at some point to give in and start buying it.
Hotel coffee has the same vibe, a watery contrast to the sludgy nectar I brew in my home and on the bus. I don't mean to brag but our bus driver Greg recently told me that he will drink the coffee of NO ONE EXCEPT FOR ME.
Because, like Greg, I know what it takes. In Greg's case, the skills to handle 48,000 pounds of vehicle and the lives inside depending on him. And in my case the complete inability to retract my wrist at an appropriate time when dumping coffee grounds into the filter.