Staying at the Hotel

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Staying in a hotel is one of the better things in life.  It’s a little home away from home, but with none of the responsibility.  That’s nice.

I like that you don’t have to make the bed.  I never make the bed anyway, but at least I don’t have to feel bad about it when I stay at a hotel.  It’s ok- the maid will do it.  It’s her job. If I make the bed there will be less need for housekeeping.  Do I really want someone losing their job because I selfishly made my own bed?  I think not.

Having a maid at all is one of the perks you get when you stay at a hotel.  I don’t have a maid at home and likely never will- but for a while, just a little while, I have a maid.  I’m at least that important while I’m there.  Of course once I have a maid I’m living in the smallest space I’ve ever lived in and it’s not very useful.  It’s not an apartment or a house it’s a room- a hotel room.  What I’d like is to stay at a hotel and while I’m there have the maid come and clean my house while I’m gone.  Wouldn’t that be nice?

There’s a certain satisfaction that comes from arriving in a strange place and knowing exactly where things are and what you need to do.  Someone who travels a lot can easily find the ice maker and vending machines.  We know how to order room service.  We are somewhere else entirely, but we manage just fine.  Somehow it’s nice. It gives us the impression we can be competent anywhere.


Now I know hundreds of strangers have stayed in the room I’m in at the hotel, but this usually doesn’t sink in while I’m there.  The individually wrapped bars of soap and the plastic wrap on all the drinking cups gives the illusion your room just fell off an assembly line.

There was only one time I was really aware of the guests who had stayed before me.  I was at a place in Florida once, just a little place.  I had dropped something behind the dresser and had to move it.  There I found a ping pong ball, a receipt for a pizza, and an empty packet of gum.  Did these all belong to the same people? I wondered.  Did a family stay here and order a pizza?  Were the kids chewing gum and throwing ping pong balls?  Where were they from and why were they here?  Who were these people whose lives intersected mine in geography, but not in time?

Is there anything I’ve left behind that someone can use to understand me?  Is it something I want a stranger knowing?  Gee, I hope the maid cleaned up well.




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