I love staying in hotels. Always have, since I was a little kid. Doesn’t matter where it is – I’ve stayed at the uber-fabulous, four-star Gritti Palace in Venice, Italy and the spartan, no-star Camelot Motor Inn in Cape May, NJ – and I get the same sense of excitement when I walk into the lobby for the first time.
Here we were on Fourth of July weekend, at yet another Courtyard by Marriott. I knew what to expect – I could describe the surroundings to you blindfolded. I closed my eyes and visualized the usual pedestrian earth tones of terra cotta, deep Indian red, tangerine and chocolate brown to compliment the faux-adobe stylized lobby. Accents of huge earthenware vases with spindly, sad pussy willows sticking out of them. A fake fireplace with brass kokopelli figurines dancing across the mantel. And an overwhelming aroma of cloyingly sweet citrus-cinnamon potpourri, so strong and pungent that my eyes would begin to tear as soon as we crossed the threshold.



