Confessions of a Minor Obsessive Compulsive

Tonight we're resting up for day 5 of our journey at the Best Western Red Rock Inn in Gallup, New Mexico. Following the advice of our good friend Ginny, we've been listening to David Sedaris's newest book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames on mp3 while driving. In a portion of the book he calls The Smoking Section, Sedaris tells the story of how he quit smoking cold turkey after three decades ultimately because he travels often, and all of the decent hotels in the world no longer allow it. He tells some grotesque but hilarious anecdotes about the cheap hotels he was reduced to staying in before he decided to quit. The Best Western Red Rock Inn isn't nearly as bad as the hotels in the book, but it's the kind of hotel that brings to mind a shameful secret I've been keeping. I'm a hotel snob. I will sleep on the ground in the middle of nowhere with no showers or toilets, but I am uncomfortable staying in cheap hotels. When an occasion such as this one calls for a thrifty stop for the night, I wear my flip flops in the shower, use my own bath towel rather than the ones the hotel provides, and thoroughly inspect the bed for weird stains or insects before climbing in. I'm not proud of this. I know that I'm a spoiled American, and to the majority of people in this world, the accomodations here would seem luxurious. And it's not the hunter green carpet or the peeling wallpaper I'm uncomfortable with; Maybe it's the mysterious hair I saw on the sink, in the floor, and in the shower when we first arrived. My snobbery has to do with a standard of cleanliness and the idea that anyone could have stayed here in the past, and frankly, nature's dirt is much more appealing to me.