A Ramada. A mistake. The kind of place that you don’t walk on the carpet in your bare feet. Eating a Philly Cheesesteak that not even Chef Clancy will touch. At least it’s quiet. And as tired as I am, I’d sleep in a cot in the middle of the highway.

This is the kind of place where a drug-addled career-ruined rocker would come to die. No one would find his body for weeks, I’m convinced. No elevator to the floor facing the disused and empty conference floor; two Samaritans carried the cat cases up to the room for me.

The cats are entirely too comfortable here. Too many body-smells that only a cat could detect, perhaps? Still, I am in uncommon good humor. If I am not attacked in the night by marauding hotel stalkers or eaten alive by unseen insect life, I will live to drive another day. Tomorrow night will be better; the day after, better still.

I have never been more glad for screw-top French wine. I have never loved ketchup more. I have never been gladder for the dense, sweet loaf of Friend’s Mill strawberry bread that I brought with me. I’ll treat myself to better food tomorrow. With luck, I’ll have a new place to live in a couple of days. Then home. And back home. In preparation to living in a new home.

Would I rather be sitting in a chair writing? Yes. But it will come. It will.

 

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