Hotel California

I always sleep better in hotel beds. I don't know if it's the blackout curtains or the way the maids fluff the pillows to perfection, but if I could wake up in a room with foreign wallpaper and single-serving mints every day, I would never be sleep deprived.

In the days before I owned a television, I used to sleep in at my ex's apartment and watch PVRed re-runs in bed, pretending I was in a hotel. I fancy hotels to be the perfect mix of comfort and escapism.

Plus, any decent hotel has another necessity: a bar. The number of hook ups that go on in hotel bars give even clubland and the gaybourhood a run for their money. In a room full of horny strangers, your chances of waking up to room service are plentiful, even if you secretly live down the street.

After a late night date with a haunted hotel on vacation and a last minute family weekend in the type of establishment that houses a waterslide, I was ready to return a very Toronto hotel bar.

What's in the box at the Drake provided me with everything I need in a night out: a good (but not great) local band, a few shameless cougars to provide comedic relief and a basement full of good looking drunks who are too self-involved to bother me.

One more whiskey sour, please. Oh, and what time is check out?