Covid Hotel

Between September of 2019 and March of 2020 I spent roughly 110 days in hotel rooms because of a weekly commute from L.A. to San Francisco. It says a lot about the price of rent San Francisco that spending that many days in hotel rooms was cheaper than renting an apartment.

I have always loved hotel rooms. The solitude and anonymity when you're in your own room, and the welcome yet strange familiarity of people who work downstairs and greet you during check-in and departure. Very rarely is their sentiment genuine unless you really get to know them.

At different points in my life I've more or less lived in hotel rooms. When I was in college and living at home, our house got flooded and we were forced to live in hotels for two months. I coped by going to the library, renting books by the armful and devouring them voraciously.

Years later as a mid-level copywriter working on AT&T, I traveled from Atlanta to New York nearly every week to produce radio spots. I’d fly up in the morning, go straight to the studio, record and mix, and then spend the night, flying back the next day before noon. I did this three times a month. My go-to hotels were the Soho Grand or W Union Square. I knew the valets by name. I enjoyed that time, even though I felt distant from New York and never made true friendships there.

Back in December of last year, I had the worst flu of my life while I was up in San Francisco. It was so bad and my fever was so high, I went to take a hot bath as a way to counteract the fever chills. I remember thinking at the time it was strange that a bath so hot I could see steaming all around me felt lukewarm. The fever lasted 24+ hours before it finally broke. I sweated straight through the blankets and the sheets and ended up dry cleaning a hoodie as a result of wearing it and sweating through it the next day. I was congested for a few weeks afterward.

I have no way of knowing if it was a mild form of Covid; the antibody tests are too unreliable. I do know that it was a weird fever and a sickness I'd never encountered before then. I hope never to encounter it again, especially in a hotel room, as I couldn't help but think what a horrible way it would be to die. Not necessarily for me, as death is more or less the same regardless of location, but for the poor housekeeper who would find my corpse.

Tonight is the first night since the first week of March that I'm spending in a hotel room. The feeling is a lot like the first time  we went to a restaurant since lockdown. Mundane. Surreal.  And slightly horrifying.

They have taken extra Covid steps or whatever, to ensure my safety, or so the brochure says. They will not enter my room during my stay to clean it, which is fine by me. That's what Do Not Disturb signs are for any way.  They have also promised me they have cleaned extra. Which makes me wonder how lax they (and restaurants) were before this. No room service, but I can dine in (sans mask) or go downstairs for pick up and schlep it to my room where I can also eat sans mask, without being surrounded by employees who are wearing masks and gloves. Even though it's meant to be reassuring, the sight of it is disconcerting.

Out of the many steps made to limit "high contact," parts of the room, the hotel has eliminated the in-room coffeemaker and the iron. I am surprised about the iron, as how many people actually use it? I can think of exactly one time during my 110+ nights spent in San Francisco hotel rooms that I attempted to use the iron. About three minutes into that one time, I instantly came to my senses, unplugged the damn thing and folded up the board.

Irons are stupid. They take forever to heat up properly and then stay volcanic hot for about a half a day. They are like some relic of a bygone era we never bothered to improve upon.

It’s one part sheer force and another part alchemy. Sure white-hot metal will iron out creases, but who the hell ever knows how much water to add and how much steam is required and what type of fabric? I dont believe the dials. I feel like all that ever ends up happening is that you make your wrinkly clothes extra hot, but they still stay wrinkled. There's also a good chance you dripped water on them, too.

This is just a long-winded way of saying I don't feel like I'm ready to reenter society.