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I think I know the hotel: it's where I stayed when I first washed ashore on Lamma in 2005. It's very nice. Tell the truth, I did not notice any bar sounds. However, I DID wash ashore during the terrific rains of June 2005, and left part of my luggage on the balcony of the small room, innocently thinking that the roof ledge would protect the bags. I'd forgotten what I learned in Outward Bound, that no bag is waterproof against water (water water water) when the flood gods fare loose from Neptune's realm aargh, whether aargh ye be on ship or shore.
Aargh. Several bags were soaked.
As to the lads' carouse, you have my sympathies. In San Francisco, in 2003, I was staying at a budget ass tourist estaminet when awakened by The Drunk Smokers who in San Francisco then, and now in HK, must smoke outside, as if drinking is a job and they are taking a break from the wearisome work of getting shitfaced plastered berserko.
[It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.]
The Bright Young Things in the fashionable bar who were smoking and chatting were not that Bright. Indeed, their conversation, as it filtered up through the mild sea-blown air of 'Frisco, was something like "I tole him he had to do da Web page in five daze and yew know what he said to me? Fucker said it would take five weeks!" and "Shut up, you slut! You SLEPT with him?"
Finally, I heaved myself out of bed, and called down in a loud voice as it were from Heaven, "why don't you dickwads and whores take it inside? People who work for a living trying to sleep!"
[This may seem ill-bred, but it is the custom in Amer-i-ka-ye to be direct and Jonathan-plain spoken, and to speak Truth to Power. And, drunk chaps.]
[Indeed, the hotel was not only used by tourists it was also used on a monthly basis by the proletariat who can no longer even rent (buy? u crazy?) in San Francisco.]
The wads dared me to come down. The "whores" said you not gettin' any. I dialed the cops, and they found out that this hip, fashionable place had no License, and closed it down. Thus it was that a small, but perhaps representative, segment of the world proletariat, got some sleep in the belly of the beast.
All the best, Eileen.
_________________
Publish and be damn'd
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