Greetings from Poosey.

They call them First World Problems, those gripes that would make Third World citizens roll their eyes in disgust at our affluent lifestyles. “My $6 Starbucks latte came with one espresso instead of two,” “My dad bought me my first car today and it’s a used BMW instead of a new one,” or maybe, “My iPhone broke! My world is over!” …as all the while one-third of the world’s population is worrying about finding a meal tomorrow. Yep, I’m as guilty as the rest. And if you have any social consciousness at all, you’ll skip reading the rest of this column.

We’re at the tail end of the travel season as families (in the First World) take out on their final jaunts to Branson or to visit Aunt Rose (who you don’t like that well but she owns a great condo in the Ozarks). And with travel comes the alternate joy or consternation of finding a hotel for the night. They’re mostly motels by now but most sleepover establishments have glommed on to the classier title of “hotel,” since “motel” smacks of thin towels and vibrating beds.

After a lifetime of making beds and washing sheets I look forward to a night’s stay in a place where someone else scrubs the bathtub …at least I hope they do. Most hotels suit me just fine. But …and here comes the First World whining …can’t we do something about the typical free hotel breakfast? In the first place, it’s not free. That’s like saying you have a free bed in your room. You pay for it. But even a newlywed bride with no culinary experience at all could top what’s offered in most budget rate hotels first thing in the morning.

The typical hotel breakfast room will be staffed with a harried matron who does her best to hustle things from the closet-sized kitchen to the main dining room, apologizing with her eyes for such paltry fare. The snail-paced bagel toaster is designed to force you to pay for an extra night’s stay as you stand there bleary-eyed, willing the thing to pop, and the thimble-sized pats of margarine have melted long before you got your wakeup call. There are a few assorted ovals labeled English muffin but their texture more closely resembles something left behind by the team of discus throwers at last week’s track and field competition. The handful of anemic looking slices of white bread can double as plastic dinner plates.

You open the lid on the steam table and you’re treated to another perk of Snore-Ezy Inn, a guessing game in which you try to identify the amorphous glob of stuff into which the guest before you has dropped the serving ladle. It looks a bit like oatmeal but could just as easily be gravy. You only dip a cupful in a desperate attempt to bring some moisture back into the depleted life of your dehydrated biscuit. The biscuit gives you a clue that last week’s track team shared rooms with a traveling hockey squad and they left their puck.

The classier establishments offer bacon or sausage, both sad tributes to the pork industry. Hotel breakfast meat always looks so defeated as if it meant well but time and neglect has taken its toll. There’s nothing sadder than a depressed sliver of bacon in the middle of an otherwise cheery vacation. So, you pass, knowing that perhaps tomorrow morning or next Tuesday someone will take it.

Businessmen sitting alone and reading the sports page of USA Today to the sound of Fox News or the Weather Channel playing on the overheard plasma screen occupy most of the tables. Both Fox and the weather network are typically forecasting gloom so you pick a table where you can turn your back to the screen and stare at your corn flakes, opting for something safe manufactured in Battle Creek, MI, over the strange concoctions designed in the caldron next door. You glance at the diners around you playing the roadside inn game of How Many Plastic Forks Can I Break on a Week Old Sausage? You see a piece of the fork fly through the air to land in the glop on the steam table but figure that the enzymes at work in the smoldering gruel will soon decompose the thing and perhaps add a bit of texture for the late risers at the hotel.

The stereotypical poor traveler is the person who goes gallivanting then gripes when things aren’t just like they were back home. When it comes to hotel breakfasts, I guess I’m thankful that they’re not.

You ever ‘round Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.