A tour, no matter how delusional or make-believe, often includes some sort of life-on-the-road, and that means a stay at a hotel. Suzie and I were recently discussing whether we could live in a hotel for an extended period, and I initially said I absolutely could – it’s been a fantasy of mine. She claimed she’d get tired of it, and if I seriously contemplate the logistics involved, I suppose I would too. Still, it’s a nice fantasy to have.
Coming back to a clean room with freshly-folded towels, a bed that’s been immaculately made-up, and a bathroom that’s been re-stocked with cute little soaps and shampoos is certainly a lifestyle to which I could grow accustomed. {Insert your requisite ‘Andy-already-does-that’ comment here.}
There’s just something about a hotel room that sets me at ease. It goes along the same lines of traveling to new places. Some people have such an albatross of history and reputation that being outside of their customary space offers instant freedom. The tethers of image are not easily shorn, but finding oneself in a different city or place temporarily frees us from being known.
Many people find it reassuring to be among those who know them – friends and family and acquaintances who make them feel safe. I know that ease, and the heartening familiarity of seeing a face you know in a room filled with strangers, but being in a new environment and expecting to not know anyone has never bothered or scared me.
The limbo of travel status, and the state of staying in a hotel, is reinvigorating. It enlivens and sparks exercises in creativity. Forced to step outside our habits, into a strange room with strange sheets and a strange layout, we become something strange to ourselves.
THE DELUSIONAL GRANDEUR TOUR: LAST STAND OF A ROCK STAR
