Transitory Places

Sitting in the lobby of the Radisson Blu Carlton in downtown Bratislava Slovakia, sipping a nice cuppa Darjeeling tea. Comfortable armchair, shiny marble (or good faux marble) floor, pleasant music piped overhead, a mix of languages making up the background, even when they speak English it’s all science and medicine, which is a foreign language to me. I’m the “trailing spouse” at an international medical conference, with nothing to do but wander the city for a few days. A few casual conversations with acquaintances I’ve made, but mostly on my own. I don’t quite fit in, but neither am I excluded.


I’ve had better gigs, perhaps, but not many, and I know I’ve rarely stayed in a nicer place. The Waldorf-Astoria once, in NYC, maybe. I certainly didn’t fit in there. A hotel on Picadilly Circus during my college days, where we shared a language but not a quite a culture. Certainly worse places, Motel 6s in the midwest come to mind, and a few “hotels” in pre-war Afghanistan, with bats flitting about, toilet paper if you’re lucky, and security guards sleeping on the floor. Nice not have those worries (though in this day of state-sponsored terror, nowhere is really safe). I’m free, warm, dry, and well-fed. No reason to complain and I’m not doing that.

But my favorite hotels reside firmly and only in my memory, in mid-20th century Midwestern America. Dad was a sales rep for a plumbing supply company, and during my summer breaks he would take me with him on his week-long “route,” staying in small towns on a circuit in central Nebraska. Mostly small old hotels, two-stories, radiator heat, single beds, already being replaced by the motels that soon sprouted on the edge of town, like mushrooms in a rainy summer. Those hotels had clerks behind a desk, and I felt very adult stopping by to drop off my room key when I went out and either asking for it or plucking it from a pigeon-hole when I returned. A few times we stayed in a larger hotel in a larger city, burgundy carpets and overstuffed chairs in the lobby, brass lights, a smell that must have been a mix of cleaning supplies, old carpet, and faded smoke. A small gift and tobacco shop off to the side, maybe an old guy or two ensconced in a corner, my steps muffled on the stairs. Wandering the town, and dad buying me a comic book to read in the evenings.

I felt secure, all was under control, I was as free as I felt safe to be. Open and unstructured afternoons, nice breakfasts, long ride to the next town or city, sometimes I’d wander the plumbing aisles of stores while dad met with the owners, I’d pick up and set down various pipe fixtures and so on, study the calendars and wall posters, sit outside in the car, or wander a half-block or so in either direction. Evening phone calls to mom, reminders of the home that patiently awaited.

All was good, and seemed destined to be that way forever. I had no idea how transitory it all was, how someday I’d be thousands of miles and days away, still wandering, still wondering if I’ll ever find my way back to a place that is truly home.