Lying alone in a hotel bed, I let feelings and thoughts wash over me. Memories of overnight, snow-bound delays, of brief holidays past, of transient times in between momentous ones.
Yet also my mind sweeps forward, into imagination, into a body beside me, a bottle of wine to share, a firm chest instead of a pillow to rest my head on. I’ve never traveled with a boyfriend, really. One came to my Idahome once, slept in the basement, where I joined him after my parents fell asleep and then scurried away before they woke. Another I visited– Memorial Day after freshman year, missing the fireworks because we veered off the road to avoid hitting a deer. And I came to him again at Steppenwolf, in Chicago. He was the star. It was an experience of momentary cohabitation. Within days from when I left, Obama was elected , i was opening a show, and I had been unceremoniously dumped.
I like hotel rooms for this reason. There is enormous potential in them. Perhaps I have a hotel fantasy, of days lounging on fluffed pillows and clean sheets, lolling naked as we nibble on hard cheeses and drown ourselves in wine. An escape. An opportunity to be purely with another, all responsibilities irrelevant. That’s it, I think. Hotels are blank worlds where pure, unencumbered connection may occur.
I don’t yet know what my weekend will hold. Yet at this moment, eyelids drooping, cocooned in clean white sheets, alone in a room in our nation’s Capitol… And coming off a first, frustrating, extreme, exciting, draining, dreamy week of rehearsals… I do feel like not much could go wrong these three days. just don’t let me slack on the memorization, bitchez!
Hasta mañana, and hola Washington DC.