If I ran a B&B...

I f Iran aB& B, I’d do a few things differently than what I found on a recent trip to Europe. First, I might occasionally change the name to a P&B, prison-and-breakfast, after one host said there wouldn’t be heat in the room.

“It’s—Just—a—Bed—and— Breakfast,” she huffed, one word at time, thinking this explained everything.

“Will there be hot water?” I wondered. “Well, of course,” she said incredulous. “We don’t want you to be as cold as the scrambled eggs.”

But most of the time, the hosts were beyond nice. We were new members of their family and we knew this because pictures of their brood hung all about giving us a crash course so we’d recognize them when invited to the next reunion.

After all, in some cases we were walking right into their homes where we’d move curious knickknacks to find an inch for a glass of water which would drip, drip, drip leaving a ring. I’d give my guests coasters; a piece of cardboard would do and could also be stuffed under the door so you don’t wake the dog when you trip over your suitcase at 3 a.m.

If I ran a B&B, I’d also give my guests a form that read: “Should I tell you about my fabulous travels, or would you rather hear about how I got into the B&B business?” Please check one.

“None of the above” would also be an option.

But hey, at least I wasn’t making the bed. So in the spirit of constructive criticism, I’d like to offer these additional tips in a helpful tone.

1. It’s rare to find enough places to hang your wet towel, your underwear that needs a rinse, your flashlight that will serve as your reading light because the one over the bed is as yellow as a canary but it doesn’t sing, which would be a nice touch. So I’d offer my guests more hooks. In fact, next time I’ll bring some. Sorry about the holes!

2. In Europe, there was an electric teapot in every room. In the U.S., you get hot water through a tiny coffee machine so it tastes like coffee, looks like coffee, and keeps you up all night. I’d vote for a regulation pot in every inn the world over, and also a hefty mug. I know it looks pretty, but it’s hard to drink out of a dainty cup no bigger than a toothpaste cap.

3. I love squirming around on the floor like a cat to find a plug. At least you get a stretch. But if it was my place, I’d make the plugs visible, not hidden behind heavy bureaus in the family for three generations. I’d also rather not hire a moving company to cart around my quaint 7-inch, halfpound room key that can’t fit in my purse.

4. The trend toward body wash has sent my husband screaming

to midnight pharmacies to find something that cuts through grease and hair without sliding off like a slug on a rainspout. Body wash, I assume, is an upgrade from tiny bars that slip through the drain. I propose a downgrade to an old-fashioned bar bigger than a bed bug.

5. Give me some shades, preferably room darkeners. Frilly curtains that barely conceal the morning light mess with my desire to sleep in, even if I do miss your morning crumpets. My vacation, my rules. Better to shift the focus to evening light bulbs so I can see my dress when I improvise an ironing board on the bed, or search my bag on the floor because there’s only one luggage rack for two people.

Yes, if I ran a B&B, pillows wouldn’t be charmingly lived in, blankets would actually be thick, and heat would stream out, or not, at whim. My guests would get a better night’s rest — probably because I’d abandon the whole place to them. With weary travelers and their annoying ideas, I doubt the whole thing would be my cup of tea.