Datelog: July 1, 10:30pm
(Posted later because my VPN doesn’t work on the hotel Wi-Fi)
I can’t explain how weird it is to be sitting in a hotel room in my own city.
I’m in New York, at a Sheraton in Soho, paying very little for a room before an early train to Quebec tomorrow morning.
I’ve lived in New York for the past seven years.
My lease expired at the end of March, and I stayed with short-term roommates for two months while finishing work at my old job. One month in Chelsea, and one month in Boerum Hill in Brooklyn.
I loved that experience, because I was essentially traveling in my own city. I explored new neighborhoods. I had only three bags of stuff, so “moving” meant getting on the subway. I got to have pets without the expense and the hassle. I didn’t do much housework.
But I still lived in the city. I shopped for food and prepared it in a kitchen and went to work and then didn’t go to work and occasionally did laundry.
Now I’m in between a trip to upstate NY and a trip to Canada, staying here because it would be too annoying to stay with someone and then have to leave at 6:30 a.m. Hotels are designed for that.
It still feels like my city.
I bought food at my favorite local chain, Le Pain Quotidien, and brought it back to my room, then ordered a pot of chamomile tea from room service.
I’m typing at a work desk and sleeping in a hotel bed. I feel like I’m on a business trip, but when I step out the door, I feel at home.
It’s weird and fun and freeing all at once. But mostly weird.