I, more than most people I'm guessing, like staying in hotels. The mini hair dryers, figuring out how to work the remote, the burnt laundry smell of the starched sheets, I love it all. Except maybe the increased likelihood of a low-flow showerhead. But beside that, it's like a game: if I only wash my face with the mini bar soap, how clear will my skin be compared to my normal prescription wash routine? Should I leave the towels in the tub or be eco-friendly and reuse like the mini card asks me? Ordering room service comes with it's own unique set of pleasures; unveiling the poached eggs and soggy toast, the hollow sucking noise of whipping off the metal plate cover. Tipping bellboys. Unwrapping solo cups to drink from the tap. Stealing ballpoint pens. Requesting wake up calls.
I know people who have to travel for business loath all of those things. My dad stays in a hotel maybe 14 days a month and could probably become a "tacky countryside scene bolted to the wall" dealer. But I don't know that I could ever grow tired of pushing elevator buttons and swiping card keys and dinette sets that no one ever sits at. Maybe I just like how sterile and tidy the whole experience is: no long term commitments, no kitchen sink, no four nearly empty bottles of conditioner left in the shower. It's all one day at a time. This is today's mini mouth wash, these are today's sheets, today's paper left in front of the door. No chaos in here; the windows don't even open.