I’m flying out to LA tomorrow evening for work. A quick training session at our corporate headquarters Wednesday morning, some networking time in the afternoon, and back home Wednesday evening.
I haven’t traveled for work before. It should be fun, even though the training is for something I’ve already been trained on at least three times by my previous employers. Never hurts to get a refresher, I guess. And it’s an opportunity to meet some of my colleagues.
I’m planning an overnight trip this weekend with a friend. So there’s another hotel stay in the future. Ivan and Dmitri may well forget who I am.
I like staying in hotels. We rarely did when I was growing up – we had a camper that we took most of our family vacations in, and it got increasingly cramped and unpleasant as my brother and I grew up. It was especially obnoxious when we went out into the woods: if you’re going to camp, bust out the tents and do it right. Anyway, I think of even non-luxurious hotels as something of a luxury.
I remember sitting with my feet up and a volume of Wodehouse at a cheap motel the night before my brother’s wedding in West Virginia, thinking it was all very decadent. I remember the valet, the porter, and the desk clerk at the Melrose in Dallas all greeting me like an old friend long missed – even though I’d never been there before. I remember the Southwest Inn in Sedona – best bed ever – with its cozy fireplace, perfect to cuddle up in front of with someone special. I remember a cheap room at the Sandpiper in Santa Barbara where I could watch Buffy reruns on a Sunday morning as I got ready to meet my friends for brunch.
I’ve stayed in some nicer places, and some cheaper places, and I still think there’s something to be said for a nice quiet room to yourself that has almost nothing of yourself in it. There’s something a little soothing about that mix of generic sterility and artificial home-feeling for me. I don’t want it in large doses, nor frequent ones. But now and then it hits the spot.
