Glorious Seven Hours of Sleep

So I'm in a hotel in San Francisco, a probably formerly hard-bitten hotel, but actually rather nice if bijou. The room is big enough for a bed and to walk around said bed. The hotel, the Mosser, has gone through many renovations in the several years I've annually stayed here, and it just gets better and better (and more expensive, but that's how that works). Last year, the elevator was being replaced, so I got a great room rate and some nice exercise walking to, I believe, the 7th floor a couple times a day. No big whoop.

With no baby in the room with me--despite hearing some phantom baby noises at night--I had trouble getting to sleep, of course. It was too quiet, the room, punctuated by loud outside noises and people clomping through the hall. I'm sure they were walking, but the hotel is still creaky despite modernization. It's not noisy, though. Earplugs helped create enough white noise to get me to sleep.

Seven hours later, I wake, alert. That's 30 to 60 minutes more than a usual night's sleep most recent days, so it's somewhat luxurious. I wouldn't have minded sleeping closer to 8, but then I'd be all messed up when I returned to Seattle. And I had a single, marvelous beer last night, which probably curtailed sleep.

In a few hours, I'll be hanging on Steve Jobs's every word--or rather, taking furious notes, and composing a newspaper story as I go.