An imaginary hotel...

It’s early in the morning. Or rather it was. It’s now 0720, which in my book isn’t early. When I woke up this morning the WiFi wasn’t working, much to my disgust, but it’s working now and I can listen to whatever I want: music, the news, you name it. I chose BBC Radio 3 because it’s chilled out and just right for this time of the morning. And by ‘this time’ I’m really referring to around 0600hrs. That’s when I get out of bed and mosey on downstairs for what I believe is the witching hour. Nobody’s about, everybody’s asleep and I can do whatever I want as long as I don’t make too much noise. I don’t want to disturb the peace as that would disturb my own peace of mind. Sometimes I wish I lived alone on an island.

After sorting out the WiFi issue - don’t ask me how, I don’t know - I found Radio 3 and was hit square between the eyes by the most amazing music, O ignis spiritus by Hildegard von Bingen. It’s the sort of music I normally encounter when I’m staying in a remote hotel and there’s a mist over the surrounding forests below me, it’s about an hour away from breakfast time, but somewhere in the depths of the building the music is playing as I open a window and breathe in the cool, fresh air. A whole day is ahead of me, the work was completed yesterday and all I have to do is take it easy. What could be better?

I take a look around the room and spot objects familiar to me: my coat, perhaps, hanging from a hook; my suitcase opened to reveal a pressed and folded shirt and possibly something like a phone charger or a power cable for my lap top. There might be a county magazine on a round, glass-topped table or a remote control for the wall-mounted flatscreen television and possibly a pile of papers, evidence of the previous day’s work, alongside a  small pile of foreign currency (notes and coins) which need to be put away somewhere safe - perhaps in the safe the wardrobe.

The layout of the room is simple: as I come through the door the bathroom is on the left and then the room opens out to accommodate the double bed on the left and the desk space along the wall on the right, above which is a flat screen television. There are bedside cabinets on either side of the bed and, unusually, a window behind the bed. Straight ahead is a larger window, in front of which is a small round table, an armchair and a floor lamp.

The bathroom is pristine and gleaming, untouched, apart from the sink I used late last night. My toothbrush sits in a sparkling glass and there are folded towels and miniature soaps exquisitely wrapped. I come out and look at the bed, one half almost untouched as I slept alone. My watch is on the side cabinet next to the seemingly complicated telephone that I don’t need. I take a deep breath and exhale. Life is surprisingly good and I feel ‘of the moment’, ready for anything and looking forward to breakfast, the best meal of the day. The very thought of helping myself to whatever delights they have downstairs excites me. What to start with? A hot breakfast? Sausages, scrambled egg, mushrooms, baked beans, followed by toast or pastries or both; and what about yoghurt and tea and cereal, a fruit tea followed by a walk outside in the fresh morning air, putting aside all thoughts of checking out. Perhaps I don’t have to check out. I might have a free day, I could be flying back the next day, in which case there is time to explore the town, visit bookshops, buy a fridge magnet, enjoy half an hour in a coffee shop reading whatever book I have on the go, or writing something longhand into a notebook while enjoying a mint tea with a cookie or a fresh almond croissant, occasionally glancing through the window at the people passing by, getting on with their lives, moving at a pace I don’t have to follow because I am an imposter, I exist in my own world and can take things easy, think things through.

Outside in the hotel corridor there is a padded silence, dimly lit hallways. I turn left and right and walk past countless doors with silent spy holes and I wonder how many people see me pass, en route to breakfast. And when I reach my destination I wonder if any of the other guests - anonymous, transient people who come and go, just like me - are staying on my floor; are any of them my ‘neighbours’, did they hear me get in late last night or were they tempted to knock on my door and insist I turn the volume down on the television. Not that I had it on, I rarely do, and who would do that? I make little noise, I keep myself to myself and drift around getting on with my life, like most people. 

Breakfast over I return to my room, my safe haven, where I am greeted by the familiar sights of my unmade bed, the papers exactly where I left them, the suitcase, the tranquility, the open window, the cool breeze and the smell of fresh air. I look out at the mist swirling around in the tree tops and watch silhouetted birds in flight.

The day awaits me and so does a refreshing shower and then I’ll head outside, equipped with everything I’ll need for the day. I travel light and I dress for the weather. I feel free, relaxed, ready for the world and hoping my peace won’t be disturbed by man nor beast. Somehow I think I’ll be alright.

The hotel in which I stay doesn’t exist, as far as I know, but I can imagine it as clear as day. It might resemble a castle, located in an elevated position overlooking and surrounded by pine forests, there is a grand but never bustling lobby, which is understated in so many ways. No statues, no boutique hotel quirkiness, but instead a calm, sleepy comfort emphasised by sumptuous sofas, elegant furniture; and while other guests are most certainly present, they are not intrusive but almost invisible, living their lives behind closed doors, only seen at meal times or possibly sitting, waiting for a taxi, surrounded by expensive luggage.

It is time for me to gather up my ‘stuff’, ensure I’ve left nothing behind in the room and head for the front desk to check out. As always, I hope I’ll be back soon. Perhaps I’ll leave my luggage with the concierge and take a mooch around the town.