Has there ever really been a moment in a hotel, when I felt I would rather be there than at home? Moments that stand out regarding hotels are the ones that were out of the ordinary for one reason or another.
The bed and breakfast in Pacific Grove years ago. What stood out was the bed. The fresh linens, the thick mattress toppers that made the bed feel lush, comfortable, and endlessly soft and welcoming.
Hotel in Santa Barbara on my honeymoon. Being so upset because the key to my suitcase had been left behind, and we spent our time prying the case open instead of enjoying ourselves. That was pretty much how that short marriage progressed from there.
A hotel in Amsterdam, the Romer Viche, with it's warm, delightful atmosphere. Meeting my husband on New Year's and sitting talking with him as he sat in the bath tub. Laughter, warmth, engaging, hopeful times, and of course, something to argue about. Who ever remembers what starts an argument? I don't. Usually, I think, it's some perceived slight, and now with years and distance between us and the event, I cannot imagine what was ever worth arguing about?
Hotel rooms are places where there seem to be no real distractions. They're anonymous rest stops that sometimes aren't very restful. The Twenty Mule Team Motel in the middle of the Mojave Desert looked and felt like something right out of Psycho. Only being completely exhausted made it possible for us to sleep for a while before making our escape.
A hotel in Hawai'i, on the Kona Coast. Finding a large can of insecticide in the room, wondering why, and then running screaming from the room when a giant flying bug flew at me after I tossed a pillow across the room at my husband. Being bitten by something on that same trip and having my leg swell up to twice its size. Oh yes, hotels are interesting places.
A couple of summers ago, a friend drove to my home in Oregon, and together we drove back down the coast to San Francisco. I've made this trip many times, and never reserve a room ahead. My friend had mad reservations at a motel in Crescent City, and when we arrived, her careful plan worked out to the last detail, unfolded. Unfortunately, across the street from the motel a carnival was set up. A Ferris Wheel and a bunch of rides, plus the loudspeaker systems playing music well into the late night and early morning, had us rolling with laughter and making an early escape the next day.
Speaking of carefully arranged plans, let me tell you why I am not a big believer in planning. Or at least in expecting a plan to actually work out. My husbands birthday was coming up, and I wanted it to be special for him. I made arrangements to stay at one of the nicest hotels on Santa Catalina Island, a small island off the coast of Soutern California. My family had lived there when I was young, my Mother grew up there, and it was one of my favorite places.
The Zane Gray Hotel, the former residence of the famous writer, was located atop a hill on the island. We took the boat across the channel, and were scheduled to spend 3-4 days at the hotel. We arrived at the hotel, put our bags down, and headed out for a walk and a meal. The island is relaxing and easy to get around on, and we walked out by the Casino and sat and talked and watched the boats in the harbor. Later we went back to the hotel to find our room flooded. Something was leaking and the carpet was soaking wet. When we passed through the first night and second day with no satisfactory solution, we packed our bags and went looking for another room somewhere else. We ended up at an old converted boarding house, and that was not private, pleasant, or anything close to our dream location. We walked out to the casino again, sat by the water, and decided we wanted to go home. So we did.
Hotels remind me of dreams unfulfilled. Hotels remind me of high expectations and dreams dashed. Hotels remind me of disappointment and reasons to laugh. Hotels are not my favorite places to be, primarily because I'm a homebody. I'd rather be home than almost anywhere else. So this morning as I sit here listening to the fog horn blow out at the mouth of the river, I feel great comfort that my town is a destination, it's where people want to come to vacation.
I think it's odd that when I think of hotels, I think of all the places where I've been on the road or on vacation or on some odyssey journey, with someone, and in the hotel rooms, I find myself face to face with the stark reality of what I love or hate about my life. The last hotel I stayed in was in San Francisco with my ex-husband. We'd been on a long, arduous journey together, reaqainting ourselves with one another after long time apart. There had been lots of laughter, conversations, and some clashing expectations and perspectives.
In that boutique hotel in the Tenderloin (for anyone not familiar with either term, boutique and Tenderloin is an oxymoron), I knew there would be no more stays or long trips or even conversations. Our laughing and loving days were over. Trapped in the confines of a rented room, I felt the anonymity of being where you don't belong. Feeling away from what was safe, familiar, and comfortable. Hotels are anonymous places where we may or may not have our dreams fufilled. Personally, I'd rather be home.
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