I’ve crossed that most dangerous of thresholds: the six-month mark at the same hotel. One of the benefits of staying in a hotel is the novelty and sense of anonymity that comes with popping into a rented room for a few evenings. New surroundings, new faces, and the sense that you can do all those things your mom told you not to with some level of impunity. Behind the closed doors of your hotel room you can guzzle $8 mini-bottles of liquor while watching $12 movies, after throwing all manner of clothes and towels on the floor. All the while knowing everything will be cleaned, the mini bar restocked and new “single serving” bottles of shampoo at your disposal upon your return. Assuming the good folks at American Express continue to process the payments to your chosen lodging, you can leave like the thief in the night, with only a bill slipped under your door as evidence of your transgressions against goodness and decency.
The too-long stay on the other hand is a beast of a different stripe. It all begins with the people at the front desk starting to recognize you. First, a spark of recognition when checking in, and a quick glance at the Amex passed across the counter to verify a forgotten last name. Around the six month mark, pleasantries are exchanged, inquiries about the past weekend, and questions about wives and family members asked. “Would you like your usual room, Mr. Gray? How’s the wife?”
Then, you start getting to know the housekeeping staff, and suddenly find yourself cleaning up that mess of towels strewn about the bathroom each morning. A sideward glance from the staffer who fills the water cooler in the gym, and a remark like “Mr. Gray, haven’t seen you down in the gym in a few weeks” brings feelings of guilt and muttered excuses. Next thing you know, the room service guy is your best buddy, and the folks at the front desk are showing you pictures of their last vacation.
Perhaps it’s time I start looking for an apartment down here…
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