That magic moment…
…when you’ve emerged from the hotel elevator, key card in hand, rollerbag behind you. You search the plaque on the wall for your room number and take the left down the hall to the bed and remote awaiting your arrival. You’ve been in transit 10 hours, you haven’t eaten anything decent all day, you can’t wait to wash your hands and face.
OK, the room is going to be on the right – that means city view not parking lot view – YASSS! Just far enough from elevator yet close enough to ice machine (oh yes, you DID hit duty free for some single malt on the way in).
As you get closer the anticipation is also tinged with nervousness.
You got all the way up here with no problem, and you’re exhausted and have to pee, which generally means the key card in your travel-germy hand is not going to work. You will insert it into the door every which way, first gingerly and gradually harder until finally you gently and with resignation rest your head on the door and let out a nice long F_______K. And some stranger coming down the hall will look away, feeling sad for you, but knowing EXACTLY what has happened.
So maybe you have to go all the way back down to checkin and get a new keycard. Or maybe the card worked and you get the green light and you push open that ungodly-heavy-for-some-strange-reason hotel room door with the anticipation of a surprise but knowing you are about to step into nondescript hotel room #977. As you walk into the bathroom to finally wash your hands you see the telltale pointed fold that housekeeping left on the leading piece of toilet paper and a small part of you smiles because, at least for tonight, you’re home.
Journey On, Janes. 🚪