The choreless evening stretches before you. My husband listens to classical music and reads. I sit on his lap and we talk about the day.
Soon, we dress for dinner.
Hotels now all have good restaurants. There's little better than going downstairs to a fantastic meal with bottles of red wine, then reeling back upstairs like two drunken sailors (see #1).
We repeat this routine in new cities, new hotels, without it ever losing its appeal. It's the most banal of routines, but it never bores.
Hotels have a blank domesticity; they are homes to inhabit, and then leave. They have all the pleasures of domesticity, with none of its burdens, and in this, they make me feel free -- and at home.
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Are hotels easier to live in than homes? Leave a comment