I love staying in a hotel. Doesn’t matter if it’s in my own city. I love big beds with unlimited pillows and the option to get room service, despite rarely taking advantage of it. I love the ice buckets and the little tiny coffee makers and the guilt-free-eating-in-bed. I love stopping by a nearby convenience store and picking up some overpriced liquor for an in-room cocktail, before getting dressed up and heading out to dinner, feeling swankier than I ever do when I go out from home. I love the feeling that new and exciting adventures are just waiting for me in that rack of glossy brochures and ad-filled magazines that’s near or in the lobby of every hotel and motel ever. I love the absolute certainty that there will be a Gideon’s bible in the nightstand, that I can call someone to call me to wake me up in the morning, and that “Do Not Disturb” is sacrosanct. I love the little tiny toiletries that I take home and never use and never throw away, and I love the water pressure that is 99.9% of the time better than I get at home.
Most of all, I love being taken to a world that’s far far away and filled with possibilities, whether it’s in the next continent or in my own backyard.
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