Operation Snowman

Today is checkout day, and even though checkout time is at 11 A.M., we’re invited to have breakfast and lunch before leaving. That’s hospitality! This will also give me ample time to activate Operation Snowman. After an energizing breakfast of eggs, toast, and bananas, I return to my lair to set the scene of the crime. 

Once inside the cabin, with the door locked and the Do not disturb sign hanging on the outside handle, I gather all the towels I can find and proceed to build the biggest snowman possible. I use rounded pillows to form the rough shape and cover them tightly with towels. After wrapping the ship’s complimentary bathrobe around its “shoulders”, I draw a face on a piece of paper and affix it to the towel ball which forms the head, topping it off with a hat improvised out of an empty fruit dish. I prop my four-foot creation in the corner of the room, the finished product looking rather impressive. 

I don’t know if the housekeeping staff ever experienced towel sculpture retaliation, but I do hope they’ll find it amusing, my mission being to provide mirth and entertainment. Unless, not ever having seen a snowman, they think it’s some grotesque monstrosity and will now be traumatized, doomed to suffer nightmares for the rest of their natural lives. Well, too late to back out now. They’ll either laugh or I’ll be barred from ever coming back to Egypt by the O.P.A.N. (Office for the Prevention of Atrocious Nightmares.)

Before leaving the room, one last addition to my snowman’s attire is required. I open the cabin door, remove the Do not disturb sign, and attach it to the front of his bathrobe, like an overgrown nametag. Towel Frosty is now ready for visitors.

I exit the cabin and head for the lobby to check out. At the front desk, I smile at the clerk as I hand him the key to the newly improved Winter Wonderland Suite. Inwardly giggling, I retire to the sundeck for a relaxing interlude with my novel before heading down to the dining room for our last meal on the ship. 

The murder mystery evolving between the covers of my paperback is riveting. I’m so engrossed in the story that I don’t notice the man approaching my lounge chair until he’s standing right next to me, eh-hemming to get my attention. Startled, I look up to see a smiling waiter who then hands me a gin and tonic. That’s odd; I hadn’t ordered one, especially not at this time of the day.  My friendly liquor-bearing waiter informs me that it’s from the housekeeping staff, with their compliments. Bingo! Mission accomplished: no trauma, no O.P.A.N ban.