Alone in a Hotel Room
Field Trip | No.55
Field Trip is a homebase for the research and references that inform the work and life of designer Lauren Scarlett.
[RESEARCH ©FT]
There's a lot to enjoy about traveling solo. Going at your own pace, doing what you want, alone with your thoughts to ask the most important questions: Am I the hottest person on this train? I must be; I'm pretending to read a book. Did the receptionist think I was cool because it says 'business' for my reason of stay? Surely, I'm doing business. Does my lack of social prowess come across as timid or rude? I hope neither; I hope the boys at the desk just assume I've had a hard day of being busy and mysterious so I'm too tired to chat.
I had romantic hopes for this short stay. I thought I'd spend the day wandering around galleries and then head back to my hotel room to write. Because writing in a hotel room sounds cool and seems like something the best version of me would do. What I've done instead is snack and drink and flick through TV channels, watching anything vaguely familiar so I don't feel alone in the city. I've felt instantly comfortable in hotels before, but I feel uneasy this time.
As it starts to get dark, I know what shows my parents will be watching, so I watch the same ones, despite never watching those shows with them when I'm home. I scroll through my phone and wonder what the people in my life are doing. I wonder where they are and if I ever cross their minds when they're alone in hotel rooms. I quickly find something to do before I convince myself that no one thinks of me, ever. I can't be alone and sad in a hotel room.
Hotels are interesting; they are all at once sexy, fun, tranquil, miserable, gut-wrenchingly lonely. Each room along the corridor, on each floor, inhabited by people experiencing something different from the next. The walls seem to wrap around whatever you're feeling and emphasise it, making it the best or worst night's sleep you've ever had.
As my stuff starts to scatter around the room, it becomes less foreign. I bleed into the place and finally feel comfortable. I turn the TV down so I can hear my thoughts and start to write. Not sitting at the desk with a notebook and coffee like I imagine my favourite writers doing it, but sitting on the bed with a pre-mixed vodka and coke, letting idealistic thoughts and inner turmoil fill my notes app. Far from the romantic scene I envisioned, but I'm doing it. I'm writing in a hotel room. Am I better than everyone in London?
Favourite piece I reaf in a while - thank you!