Living in a hotel for two weeks is not all it's cracked up to be. Oh, sure, I have floor-to-ceiling windows, a massive down-comfortered king-sized bed, and nice flat-screen TV. Room service at my fingertips. Maid service. All the ice I could possibly want.
But it ain't home. The view from those floor-to-ceiling windows is kind of flat with some brown mountains in the background and a smattering of lights, not my funky Spanish Harlem skyline with spectacular sunsets. I would gladly trade this king-sized bed for my old double bed with perfect pillows, just right for me. And my ancient boat-anchor television set is all I really need - this fancy-schmancy TV is a waste.
Can you tell I'm homesick? Two weeks is too long to put up with complicated alarm clocks, weird bathroom faucets, tiny little shampoo bottles , and a toilet tissue roller that's almost impossible to reach. Or without my own little kitchen, easy chair, and the sound of Metro North trains rumbling under my window.
Maybe it would be different if I could spend my days around the pool or romping about in Disneyland. But this is no vacation. And not even a wonderful hotel room can take the place of my own little apartment, full of familiar things, at the end of a long day.
Believe me, I'm grateful to have a job where a two-week hotel stay is about the only thing I have to complain about. Still, I'm counting the days until those rattling Metro North trains rock me to sleep at night.