The Search

The mountains are majestic, the trees regal. The water is smooth as glass. The snow on the mountaintops glistens, the water shimmers, the mountains, trees, grass and sky all gleam in the fading light. I never thought that a scene such as this could ever be so cheesy.

You see, the fading light is the half-dead glow of florescent. The gleaming, glistening, shimmering is the metallic paint. I am lying in a bathtub, my heel on a washcloth that I am using to plug the drain to make this bath possible. I am staring at this little "painting" trying to think as the humming, buzzing, popping of the light permeates my brain, thus blunting the thinking process.

I am in a seedy hotel. Upon entering my room, I took stock of my surroundings. Two small beds, two holes in the wall (probably hiding cameras), a 13-inch TV, a wobbly table, two broken chairs, an old corded phone, a 1970s plastic chandelier, faded pastel Kincaid rip-offs, dark pink carpet with what appears to be a large blood stain by the first bed, and a cracked mirror. I am home.

Here, in my little slice of the American vacation dream, I shall reside for the night, halfway between point A and point B. I will sleep in fear of my socks being stolen and who knows what else on my paper-thin sheets and cardboard-stiff comforter.

These rooms tend to have much more of a life force about them than do the higher-priced, more sanitary ones. What have these walls seen? What evil trappings must abound in their pages? An ex-mobster on the run? A senator trying to get away from his sham of a life? A poor sap who knows that there must be more to this life than small-town USA has offered? Who knows what secrets this room holds.

As I placed my suitcase on the bed, I was sure of one thing. The stories of this room, including mine, all share one common thread: the search.

"The search" is all encompassing in a place like this. The search for escape, the search for meaning, for answers, for adventure. Each weary traveler who has rested their troubled head upon that flat, lumpy pillow has been on "the search." People do not stay in places like this for pleasure; they stay because life dictates it, because it is necessary to go as far as possible in their search for whatever haunts them.

What haunts me is adventure. I seek it and, in that seeking, I find myself unwilling to spend money that could be put to better use as a tool for adventure.

So, I lie here in my lime-green bathtub attempting to snatch some of the knowledge of those who have lain here before me from the heavy air. I turn on the hot water (at least I have that) for one last re-heat before I exit.

A few moments pass and the popping in the light grows louder. Soon, there is a flash of white and a small shower of sparks. It seems that I am done with my bath whether I like it or not. I fumble around for a towel and step back into the room.

The TV is flickering, just as I left it. I realize that Brad Pitt is beginning his trip to Tibet. I grab my pistachios and water, lie down on the bed and become lost in a fellow traveler's tale; secure in the knowledge that tomorrow, thanks to my seedy little room, I will be able to embark on a journey that is just as interesting as this that I am now observing.

Strange, this room. It seems to need me as much as I need it. We are partners, the room and I. I will add to its lore my little wayside story, and it will enthrall me with its quasi-dangerous appeal, almost as if sleeping itself is part of my adventure.