Hotels are weird, like I say in this week’s Dustinland comic. On one hand, they’re really fun and awesome — at least, the nice ones are. Everything seems fresh and new. You never have to clean. The beds are huge. The pillows are nice. There’s free cable. The curtains keep it darker than a cave on a moonless night. And people bring food to room and you can eat it in bed.
On the other hand, there’s grossness. The grossness of the unknown. Who was here? Who did what? In this very spot? Just last night? And who’s next door? What’s that sound? Who is doing that all night? Does anyone else have the key to my room? Can the maid just bust in at any time? What are these weird scratches on the door? Why is the food so shitty if it’s this expensive? How come the NY Post said the hotel pools in NYC are dirtier than the public pools in the parks?
Hotels. Love em or hate em or both at the same time. Either way, it’s always nice to come home.