THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY THREE - WELCOME TO THE HOTEL SAN FRANCISCO
Today’s prompt:
Write a travel journal entry from your home, could be your living room, could be your bed. Write as though you've just arrived in a new place (because, in many ways, you have) and what you're observing about the place and how you feel in it. Write what you see, hear, and touch, as though it's all brand new. What are you learning about yourself in this different land, with all its deprivations? If you'd like to turn this into a visual entry, draw a map complete with notes about this foreign land's customs, rituals, and routines.
Welcome to the Hotel San Francisco
Dear Diary,
Well, it’s my third week at the Hotel San Francisco, and it’s everything I hoped it would be. The bed is dreamy soft, pure white sheets and fluffy down comforter. The bath has all my favorite products: spicy ginger-scented shampoo, that yummy banana conditioner that leaves my hair so soft and shiny, even the artisanal small-batch perfume I picked up that one time at the Paris airport. Can you believe it? I mean, what are the chances?
Every morning, I’m treated to chai tea and the most amazing chef-curated breakfasts. The first day, it was made-to-order omelets. The second, cinnamon-spice coffeecake. It’s a different taste sensation every day. I don’t mind that I need to cook it myself. It’s like that time we went to Tuscany and learned to make our own pasta from that feisty old nonna. It’s part of the whole “San Francisco foodie” scene, am I right?
Did I mention that this place is super-exclusive? In my time here, I’ve run into only one other guest: a reclusive twenty-something who comes out of his bedroom around noon and grabs a bit of whatever I cooked that morning. I think he might be an indie rocker or reality star or something. He claims to be “a college student trying to avoid his crazy-ass mother,” but I’m not fooled for one minute. Paparazzi alert! Us Weekly, you’re welcome.
But I’ve saved the best for last. There’s this guy – the innkeeper and handyman and custodial staff and dishwasher all rolled into one – who I keep running into all the time. He’s got that “cranky but sweet and borderline pathological” quality to him, tall and lanky, short salt and pepper hair. Very Hugh Laurie as House (the early seasons). Whenever I leave my mug on the hardwood coffee table, or forget to check the toaster when it’s burning, or leave my underthings scattered on the floor (oops!), he’s always around, picking up after me. There’s a frisson that can’t be denied.
Some Yelpers have been scathing in their reviews of the Hotel San Francisco. They say the place is past its prime. The food is mediocre. The innkeeper is a jerk. I don’t know what they’re talking about. To me, the Hotel San Francisco is pure bliss.
Five stars.