There is something about hotels, isn’t there?
I travel for work a bit. It’s harder for me to do that now, but I try to find some piece of it to look forward to and the hotel is usually my favorite part. I just try not to think about bedbugs as sleeping partners or what a black light might reveal at any given moment.
It’s better that way.
I don’t travel enough to notice the room decor, or the know the menu at the restaurant downstairs. I only travel enough to enjoy a day or two here or there, recognize hookers in the lobby bar, and appreciate a fluffy white bed.
There is peace in the quiet and the anonymity. I rarely turn on the TV and, because of that, there are moments where it feels like anything could happen. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, hair piled on top of my head and laptop on, I half expect an unexpected knock at the door that never comes, but still – it could.
Hotels still feel like possibility. They still have memories that are sweet, or triumphant, adventurous or mischievous, and always full of story. I think I carry those around and unpack them all a bit in each hotel room. They travel well.
For all of the escape and massive room I can command in the bed, at some point, the bed feels too big, or too empty – and that is the reminder that this is only temporary, a borrowed pause.
But until then, this room is mine – and the 68 degree temperature reading on the thermostat will be perfect for snuggling under layers of white, and breakfast in bed will be the perfect bookend.
Until next time.