There's a small hotel With a wishing well I wish that we could share, Together.
Part of it is the knowledge that, if this is a hotel, you must be a guest -- that most desirable of adult conditions. The children and the car have been left behind (else there would be mo, not ho, to tell). Even the phone will not ring without invitation. It is . . . escape with certain reservations. For proof, the window brings the sounds of traffic from a glamorous street many floors below, or the scent of bougainvillea from a tropical garden, or the boom of surf many jet-hours from home. This is no business trip. These bills will come to you at home, or be paid in strange currencies counted out twice. You have gotten away. There are bound to be memories, of one sort or another.
Of one-sort and another, here are 10. Of Llangololen, Wales; Cambridge, Mass., and a mountain overlooking Barcelona. Of the alleys of North Africa, and Le Ritz in Paris, and Afghanistan on 14 cents a night. Of Chateau-Marmont in Los Angeles and the Algonquin in New York, the northern California roadside, and of a small hotel plunk square in the middle of the most exotic city of all, a place called Washington D.C.