“What a shithole.”

I’m on a business trip for the rest of the week, which is a great way to distract myself while not having to look at all of the stuff in my house. That doesn’t mean that I’m sleeping any better, and I’m missing the cats, but I’m starting to feel like a guest in my own house already. I need a bit of distance to reduce the number of things I’m thinking about.

A week ago I was fixing things around the house and taking care of business, but now I feel like it’s a waste of time to work on something I’m not going to get to live in. I’m already planning the move out. I don’t feel like I live there anymore. I’m effectively housesitting.

Hotels aren’t always pleasant experiences for me. I sometimes wake up in a panic wondering where I am. I travel internationally, so sometimes I don’t even remember which country I’m in. After a couple of minutes, I figure it out. I’ve taken to leaving the TV on at low volume all the time.

I have a couple of hotel rituals. When I first come in, I walk to the window, open the curtains with both arms, scan the scene, then slowly say “What a shithole.” I say it deadpan and without feeling in every hotel room no matter where I am and how beautiful the scene might be. I’ve said it about a view of the Eiffel Tower and a view of the canals of Amsterdam. After that, I take all the things of whatever desk there is. I unplug the phones and put them in the nightstand drawer (unless it’s a real dive where you can’t steal the phones).

I don’t do these because I have some compulsion. I travel enough that I need to make something constant even when the surroundings are different and I need to figure out which electrical adapters. If the tangibles can’t be the same, some of my behavior can be. Now I need to do that for my whole life. There’s a big thunderstorm outside. It’s lighting up the room as much as the TV.