Suite dreams

“Expensive hotel rooms are all alike, but every cheap hotel room is cheap in its own way.” I think Tolstoy said that, but I could be wrong.

I’ve never been able to afford an expensive hotel room, so this is just a guess, but I imag- ine they all smell like a cross between a new car and cut flowers. As opposed to the cheap hotel room I’m in now, which smells like a car deodorizer hanging from the rearview mirror, crossed with Essence of National Park Men’s Room. It’s as if the staff decided to kill the germs by spraying them with antiseptic rather than by giving the room a good scrubbing. This place is so cheap, I think they reused the little paper strip that says “This toilet has been cleaned.”

I imagine expensive hotel rooms have designer furniture, thick carpets and huge, fluffy beds, all meant to soothe the soul of the weary traveler. The places I can afford look like they bought their furniture from the set of “The Honeymooners.” It’s hard to fall asleep when all you can hear in your head is “To the moon, Alice! To the moon!”

For $500 a night, you probably get a bathroom big enough to turn around in, all decked out in white marble and mirrors. After a long day on the road, I dream of standing under a giant rainfall showerhead, slathering myself with the finest complimentary beauty products from famous spas, slipping into the lush, free bathrobe and then settling into the massage chair to watch a few minutes of the wall-sized, premium-channel TV before room service delivers my four-star meal.

For $68 dollars a night (plus room tax), I get a shower cell with a few scratchy, threadbare dish towels and a grudgingly supplied tiny bar of soap left over from the breakup of the Soviet Union. The shampoo comes in a packet like the ketchup you get at fast food places.

The heater in my room smells like I’ve left my iron on too long, making the room reek of hot vinegar and burning hair. I’m starting to wonder if I can give them another $68 to let me leave, but I’m on a budget. Besides, there’s no one at the front desk this time of night. And if there were, it wouldn’t matter. The person at the front desk of a budget hotel is always new. Half the time it’s his or her first day. I suspect it’s often their last, too. The look on their faces just screams, “There’s got to be an easier way to make minimum wage.”

Just as I feel myself drifting off to sleep, the compressor from the mini refrigerator kicks in. It’s louder than any of the planes from the nearby airport. The only thing louder than the fridge is the fan in the bathroom which, I think, blows in the wrong direction.

If there is a theme to budget hotel rooms, it is “thin.” The towels are thin, the blankets are thin, the pillows are thin, the walls are thin, the carpet is thin, the door is thin. I can smell smoke in my “no smoking” room. Either they lied, or the smoke is seeping in from the party next door. And it doesn’t smell like cigarette smoke.

The complimentary breakfast at the full-price hotel must be a thing to behold. Waiters would take my order for eggs Benedict or shakshuka while I relax at my white-tableclothed booth. It would be like being on a cruise ship with the entire kitchen at my command.

At my hotel, there’s a thermos on the check-in desk with today’s coffee poured on top of whatever was left over from yesterday. I wish I was used to better stuff, but I’m not. At least the coffee will keep me from falling asleep at the wheel from the lack of sleep I got last night.

Tonight I may stay in someplace better — I may sleep in my car.