EDITOR’S NOTEBOOK: A hotel room of one’s own

It was, I believe, the second-worst room in the Hotel Boulderado.

To get there I went up a flight of stairs from the lobby, across the skyway and then down another flight to the end of a hallway, where my card-key unlatched the second-last door in the row. This was right at the entrance to the event hall, close enough that I could hear what people were talking about as they milled around. The big picture window afforded a ground-level view of a parking lot, one of the only places on the property where people could smoke cigarettes — in a tobacco-free — but, notably, not marijuana-free — downtown district.

And the room was absolutely glorious.

Consider that most of the year I share my house with at least three other humans, and also four cats, a lizard and whatever teenagers happen to be crammed into the place for the weekend. Sometimes I sit in the garage just so I can be by myself for a bit.

This house of ours and its denizens require a near constant stream of labors large and small: cooking, cleaning, shopping trips and rides. You get the idea.

And so, to a man in my position, a genuine hotel room — any hotel room, as long as it’s for one person and has a door — looks like a sanctum santorum. Clean towels, endless hot water, an entire bed. Throw in a well-appointed lobby, a fitness center and a pool or spa, and I’ve got no complaints at all.

I should say that I love hotel rooms, preferring them every time to Airbnbs, actual B&Bs, guest rooms, campsites, hostels, space in the RV, friends’ couches and any other way to spend a night on the road.

In my room at the Hotel Boulderado, I sprawled across the king-sized bed and flung my dirty clothes across the floor. I talked to myself, I went to the bathroom with the door open, and all the other things I took for granted when I lived by myself all those years ago.

Each time I thought about calling the front desk to ask for an upgrade, I’d remember the heat and smell of my garage, the constant activity on the other side of the door. And then I’d shake my head and laugh, take another shower and dry off with another clean towel.

For me, the second-worst room at the Hotel Boulderado was as good as it gets.