The Hotel Life

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I’ve brought just a light suitcase. I could easily have taken more, heavier bags, though, because the journey was a short one. Eight blocks — or zero point six two miles, according to the printed taxi receipt. It took me twenty minutes because of the traffic. No one said goodbye to me or closed the front door behind me; no one came with me, let alone followed me. But they were waiting for me when I arrived, with the room I was about to spend the night in reserved under my name.

I live so close to the hotel that it would have been quicker to walk. If I hailed a cab, it was only so that I would start the trip off on the right foot. It was still a trip, even if it was a short one, and I wanted to take it seriously from the outset. I have always taken my work and my trips seriously; in the end, they’re more or less the same thing.

Or perhaps it was the exact opposite, and what mattered was knowing how to play, too, when the time is right for it. I’ve spent half my life going from one hotel to the next, but before now I had never slept in one in my own city. That’s why, when they called from the newspaper to suggest I review the Imperial, I ended up agreeing to do it. I think we were all surprised that I did.

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