To coax myself into writing, I sometimes have to start in a completely different place than where I hope to end up. This one starts with the fact that Sam and I often send each other audio messages. She began the habit as a less stressful way to stay connected than a phone call, which could easily keep us tied up for an hour or more.

That’s not to say the audio messages replace the appeal of a real-time, meaningful chat. They’re more like soap boxes, or personal podcasts. They meander. They get interrupted. But I adore both listening to hers and leaving mine behind.

We try to text replies as we listen. So, in one second, you’ll get a 7- to 29-minute audio bubble, and if you’re lucky, ten little text replies will follow: “LMFAO at ___” or “Omg, I know what you mean about ___.”

Real-time replies don’t always work out in her life as often as they do in mine (one of us is childfree, one of us is very much not), but when they do, it’s the loveliest thing.

This time, I was talking to her as I drove home to pack for a work trip.

When I looked at my phone after I got inside, I saw a message: “I loved listening to you talk about travel and the hotel.” And I felt that familiar hug of a compliment from Sam. She’s so cozy and artful and choosy in her interests that adoring something I say feels like a real honor.

And she’s right, I float a little when I talk about a hotel stay. Especially a hotel I like, like The Mayflower in D.C.

The room I stayed in this time wasn’t much compared to the last. In fact, despite the grandeur of this historic hotel: the ornate golden entrance, the heavy doors, the soaring lobby ceiling with its rich, royal detailing carved into every gilded edge — my room was kind of lackluster.

I woke up every night to sirens or someone yelling on Connecticut Avenue. One night, a man was screaming “No!” over and over, and my suburban longing for silence was interrupted by the need to cool the room down. I peeled my sweaty body off the Marriott bedding, slipped on my flats (because god forbid my bare feet touch hotel carpet), adjusted the thermostat, and walked over to the window. The AC bubbled and blew a strong gust of mildew-scented air right in my face.

Still, I love the (we are all dislocated) melancholy charm of a hotel.

Even when it’s not the cleanest. This room had the faint spray of a sneeze on the mirror and drink rings on the nightstand from the last guest. I wiped it all down with the Clorox wipes I bring just in case, but noticed the stains were actually just… permanent. Then I arranged my altar of comforts: my favorite fragrance in its tiny form, my Le Ménage lip sleeping mask, the under-eye cream my esthetician begs me never to skip because apparently that’s the battleground now.

I love unpacking. I give real thought to what I’ll wear for each moment, whether it’s a morning run, a work dinner, a meeting, or a walk to the Portrait Gallery or Arlington Cemetery. Everything has its plan. I pack in order of wear, all the way down to what I’ll sleep in. Is it rigid? Inflexible? Absolutely not. It’s all in fun. When I hang things up, I feel the fabric of each item between my fingers. I play my music.

I rarely turn on the television. I haven’t had a thing where one needs to change channels since my twenties, and I’m pushing forty. Could I log into Netflix or make do with Shark Week? Probably. But I can’t be bothered. I’ll write. I’ll read. I’ll send half-tipsy audio messages. I’ll keep bothering my darling man or my mom. I’ll do my skincare. I’ll reply to emails. Or I’ll…

…take the elevator to the lobby and order another drink to bring with me into the ballroom where President JFK had his inaugural ball.

This is the second year in a row I’ve done it. And I hope, each time, I get a kind man who’ll let me sit there for a bit.

I get lucky.

I sit in that historical ballroom, wearing a silky skirt, legs slipping out of the double slits, and I sip and look around at all the details. Letting myself wonder what life was like in that specific moment in time. I forget about my small room and my work calendar and how hot the day was and any little idiosyncrasy in-between. I think about the style of dress or perfume that took over this space. The band that might’ve been playing.

And how painful life can still be, even outside of sweepingly romantic moments.

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