The hotel room plays a central role in American life. Many marriages (in some cases the same marriage) have been proposed, consummated, and dissolved in this special place. When young, we are enticed by the glamor of a hotel room. When old, we fear dying alone in one.
Often the space a hotel room occupies in our consciousness depends on its relationship to its locale. A hotel room in Warsaw, likely to be affordable, large, and equipped with a working television providing CNN reception, can prove a balm ("I can't wait to finish this large plate of pirogi and get back to the room") whereas a hotel room in Paris, likely to be cramped, expensive, and bereft of electric devices and rectangular pillows, is often a curse ("If you don't stop whining about your feet, you'll spend the day in the room and won't join us for tagine at Mommy's favorite Moroccan restaurant").
Adolescents frequently invoke the hotel room when faced with the prospect of entering a world-famous art gallery, opera house, or other cultural site. "Can't we just go back to the hotel?" is a most unwelcome question when asked in the foyer of the Museum of Modern Art after one has purchased four $20 tickets.
"How many stars is this hotel?" is a question asked by inquisitive fourteen-year-olds eager to ascertain to what degree their parents value them. This calculus involves deducting the number of stars of a hotel in which the offspring are lodged from the number of stars of hotels visited by Mother and Father when travelling alone. Constantly yammering about the elders' four-star hotel in Rome versus tonight's one-star enjoyed en famille in Paris has the effect of virtually reducing tonight's accommodation to zero stars and one's allowance upon return home by several dollars a week.
Hotel rooms can be employed as a form of vengeance against those who are footing the bill. For example, gobbling a Toblerone from the hotel mini-bar in Zurich when this confection is available in the lobby for one-half the price and down the street for one-eighth the cost is a sure way to induce a parental embolism.
Standing on a table in a Williamsburg, Virginia hotel room and imitating Steve Martin in the "Pink Panther" until said table develops a large crack in its surface and a sizable piece topples to the floor is another such method. As is pocketing the chambermaid's tip from atop the bureau and claiming one is due this sum because one "didn't order dessert yesterday at lunch."
Starting out as a young head of household, one warms an Entenmann's coffee cake with a motel-provided hair dryer, utilizes the packets of "coffee" thoughtfully provided by Super 8, and looks the other way when one's daughter pours a packet of cane sugar down her throat as the finishing touch to the morning meal. As one becomes increasingly prosperous, one leads his family down several chilly blocks to enjoy breakfast specials in a New York diner between the hours of 7 and 10:30 A.M. Then one progresses to a hotel that boasts a dining room and actually consumes breakfast there. Ultimately, in the final years of one's life, when one can no longer appreciate anything, one orders room service and eats breakfast in the room.
Quarreling in the hotel room is a risky proposition and is highly dependent on the size of the adjacent bathroom. If the bathroom is commodious, it makes sense to storm angrily from the hotel room, slam the bathroom door, and perch on the toilet with a copy of "Tatler" for an hour an a half. If, however, the bathroom is claustrophobic (Paris), lacks a door (Jakarta), or contains neither a Western-style toilet nor "Tatler" (Sharm al-Sheikh; summer 1997), you may rue your decision.
If one has booked a hotel for a phenomenally low rate in a major metropolitan area (Los Angeles) using Expedia.com, it is often best not to throw open the curtains with great bravado upon entering the room unless one wants to confront the back of a discount drugstore currently under construction. Better to leave the drapes drawn for a more romantic mood and to refrain from using the light over the bathroom vanity unless one is deeply curious as to the size of one's pores.
On the other hand, nothing feels better than staying in a deluxe hotel where rates are so astronomical that each employee smiles sycophantically at your every request lest he or she be taken out to a field and shot. One can become extremely habituated to the charming custom of having one's morning newspaper presented with a long-stemmed rose. So, too, is particular joy found in watching a resort employee struggle to adjust your bicycle seat for twenty minutes while you say "higher," then "lower."
During the current recession, many have been reduced to "staycations" in which a picnic blanket is spread on the living room floor, Smores are cooked over the kitchen stove, and each family member becomes so cripplingly depressed that he or she becomes catatonic. When faced with such drastic measures, it's far better to opt for a cheap four-bedded hotel room for the night. If you live in Florida, there'll be a pool. And if you reside in the United States, there'll be an ice machine and cable
