When I was a kid, I thought it would be fun to sleep in a Murphy bed—the kind of slumber spot that folds up against a wall. Of course, I also yearned to sleep in a curtained box like those in traditional Dutch homes. I’d seen illustrations in books about the Pilgrims (they’d emigrated to the Netherlands before coming to Plymouth). Oh, I thought I would love to spend the night in a canopied bed.
I have not visited the Netherlands yet, and my interest in canopies has waned, but I have met a Murphy bed, and I’m glad I lived to tell the tale.
I have limited experience with ski resorts, since I don’t ski, but when I’ve had occasion to spend time in mountain lodgings, the room has had a living area, a dining area, a kitchenette and a Murphy bed.
The first time I was in such a room, I was delighted. Another item to cross off the bucket list! But I quickly realized that the attraction of the Murphy bed is not sleeping in it. At the end of the day, it’s just a bed. No, the Murphy bed is appealing because it can be laid flat against the wall, thus turning a hotel room into a studio apartment. This may not enhance the travel experience for everyone, but it does for me. I enjoy feeling like I’m living in a different place, rather than just visiting. It feels like a more immersive experience.
This is the reason why, when I recently entered a hotel room with a Murphy bed, I almost immediately put it back up. It had been placed in the down position, and invitingly made up with snow-white sheets and a duvet. But I wanted room to unpack, and felt I’d rather have the bed up while I ate my supper at the dining table. Then I’d read and watch a little television in the area near the windows, where there was a couch, two chairs and a coffee table.
After going for a swim in the hotel pool, showering, and changing into my sleeping gear, that’s exactly what I did. Around 10 p.m., I decided I needed to get to bed, so I grabbed the bar that ran along the bottom of the bed and pulled it toward me.
That’s where the metal met my nose.
The collision wasn’t terribly painful, though I did say “Ow” out loud. What really freaked me out was that I was bleeding.
Copiously.
I completed the procedure of lowering the bar to the floor; the bed rested on it. Then I stepped over to the kitchenette sink, which was about three feet away. All I had at hand was a roll of stiff, brown paper towels and running water. I made do.
Since childhood, I’ve been prone to nosebleeds. I remember being in a deli with my husband Paul, maybe 15 years ago. I felt one coming on, and went to the bathroom to deal with it. I took so long, he had to come looking for me.
So I had experience with this sort of thing. But now I was alone in a hotel, in a strange place, tucked up on a mountain. I felt like I bled for an eternity. At one point I thought, “I could bleed to death right here."
Finally, it stopped. I made my way to the bathroom. I managed to contain the splattering of blood to a minimum, but did have to use a snow-white towel to clean up. Naturally, my shirt was spotted and, for some reason, my socks. Luckily, I had replacements. Finally, I was able to crawl into bed. I lay on my back and prayed the bleeding did not resume. I was exhausted.
The next morning, I realized the bar had somehow cut my left nostril. There was now a jagged red wound that was pretty noticeable. Did I mention I was at a conference? So I would be talking to and interacting with a variety of people throughout the day.
I also realized that my right nostril had bled from the inside. That was not surprising. In my history of nosebleeds, it was always the right side. In fact, that was probably where most of the blood had come from.
Amazingly, my nose didn’t hurt. I just felt uncomfortable. Once I became engaged with the events of the day, I realized that my nose was stiff, which made it difficult for me to smile and laugh.
During a break, I went upstairs to my room. A chambermaid asked me if I wanted housekeeping. I said I did, but I’d put up the “Do Not Disturb” sign because I’d had an accident and didn’t want anyone going into the room and thinking someone had died there. (As I’ve written in a previous column, I watch and read too many murder mysteries.)
The maid was horrified to hear my story, but assured me she’d seen worse. Later, when I returned to my now-pristine room, I found a note from her. “I am so sorry about your nose, ma’am. I cleaned everything up as best I could and will tell my boss what happened.”
That made my day. The whole incident could have turned out tragically, but it hadn’t, and now I was able to smile. I was glad I saw the young woman as I returned to the conference and was able to thank her in person.
I made it through the next day and the drive home without incident. My wound has healed and my pride has mostly returned. I am only left with a lingering distrust of the Murphy bed. The romance is definitely over.
This is the reason why, when I recently entered a hotel room with a Murphy bed, I almost immediately put it back up. It had been placed in the down position, and invitingly made up with snow-white sheets and a duvet. But I wanted room to unpack, and felt I’d rather have the bed up while I ate my supper at the dining table. Then I’d read and watch a little television in the area near the windows, where there was a couch, two chairs and a coffee table.
After going for a swim in the hotel pool, showering, and changing into my sleeping gear, that’s exactly what I did. Around 10 p.m., I decided I needed to get to bed, so I grabbed the bar that ran along the bottom of the bed and pulled it toward me.
That’s where the metal met my nose.
The collision wasn’t terribly painful, though I did say “Ow” out loud. What really freaked me out was that I was bleeding.
Copiously.
I completed the procedure of lowering the bar to the floor; the bed rested on it. Then I stepped over to the kitchenette sink, which was about three feet away. All I had at hand was a roll of stiff, brown paper towels and running water. I made do.
Since childhood, I’ve been prone to nosebleeds. I remember being in a deli with my husband Paul, maybe 15 years ago. I felt one coming on, and went to the bathroom to deal with it. I took so long, he had to come looking for me.
So I had experience with this sort of thing. But now I was alone in a hotel, in a strange place, tucked up on a mountain. I felt like I bled for an eternity. At one point I thought, “I could bleed to death right here."
Finally, it stopped. I made my way to the bathroom. I managed to contain the splattering of blood to a minimum, but did have to use a snow-white towel to clean up. Naturally, my shirt was spotted and, for some reason, my socks. Luckily, I had replacements. Finally, I was able to crawl into bed. I lay on my back and prayed the bleeding did not resume. I was exhausted.
The next morning, I realized the bar had somehow cut my left nostril. There was now a jagged red wound that was pretty noticeable. Did I mention I was at a conference? So I would be talking to and interacting with a variety of people throughout the day.
I also realized that my right nostril had bled from the inside. That was not surprising. In my history of nosebleeds, it was always the right side. In fact, that was probably where most of the blood had come from.
Amazingly, my nose didn’t hurt. I just felt uncomfortable. Once I became engaged with the events of the day, I realized that my nose was stiff, which made it difficult for me to smile and laugh.
During a break, I went upstairs to my room. A chambermaid asked me if I wanted housekeeping. I said I did, but I’d put up the “Do Not Disturb” sign because I’d had an accident and didn’t want anyone going into the room and thinking someone had died there. (As I’ve written in a previous column, I watch and read too many murder mysteries.)
The maid was horrified to hear my story, but assured me she’d seen worse. Later, when I returned to my now-pristine room, I found a note from her. “I am so sorry about your nose, ma’am. I cleaned everything up as best I could and will tell my boss what happened.”
That made my day. The whole incident could have turned out tragically, but it hadn’t, and now I was able to smile. I was glad I saw the young woman as I returned to the conference and was able to thank her in person.
I made it through the next day and the drive home without incident. My wound has healed and my pride has mostly returned. I am only left with a lingering distrust of the Murphy bed. The romance is definitely over.
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