When we were first married, my husband (who flew First Class with his parents and stayed at The Hotel Del Coronado and The Royal Hawaiian as a child) professed his love for “cheesy” motels, a revelation that surprised me, but I chalked it up to his love of Hunter S. Thompson. One of our first weekend adventures together was a bike ride on the Mt. Vernon Trail. In preparation, we checked into one of the oldest motels in Alexandria.
The toilet seat was secured with a paper ribbon of questionable authority, and the water glasses sat dismally in their individual clear paper sacks. The room was tiny, barely big enough to fit a double bed, let alone two people and their bike helmets. I was instantly repulsed, but I did my best to stay cheerful. Love, after all, sometimes asks for sacrifices… even in the form of questionable accommodations.
Thankfully, we spent very little time in the room. We rode the trail, showered quickly, and headed into town to meet friends for oysters and laughter. By the end of the night, I had almost forgotten the cracked tiles and flickering lightbulbs.
After a year of adventurous overnights in various questionable motels, each with its own flickering light, mismatched bedspread, and mysterious plumbing, I decided it was time to show my husband the other end of the lodging spectrum. For his birthday, I booked a weekend at The Ritz in Crystal City.
From the moment we arrived, the experience was different. We were greeted with glasses of champagne at check-in. Our room featured a sprawling king-sized bed, and the marble bathroom offered both a steam shower and a deep soaking tub. It was five-star pampering at its finest, and just like that, Matt joined me in my love of luxury hotels.
As the years passed, we upgraded our escapes. We treated ourselves to weekends at the Mandarin Oriental in Washington, D.C., complete with visits to the museums, time at the serene hotel spa, and unforgettable dinners at CityZen—Eric Ziebold’s exquisite restaurant, which he brought to life after his time at The French Laundry.
We also became fans of Kimpton’s boutique hotels sprinkled across D.C., each with its own personality, chic decor, and inviting restaurant. The happy hours were stellar, the service warm, and the locations perfect for a weekend of walking and sightseeing.
In New York City, our hotel tastes evolved with our travels. We spent nights at the iconic Waldorf, the bustling Grand Hyatt, and the ever-energetic Marriott in Times Square, each one adding to our shared collection of urban memories.
The summer of her fifteenth year, our daughter Cece, an aspiring dancer with beauty, grace, and fierce determination, was accepted to a prestigious dance camp at Hofstra University. After dropping her off and giving her one last wave, Matt and I found ourselves unexpectedly free for the weekend.
“Where should we go?” we wondered aloud, still a little dazed from the emotional whirlwind of letting go. Matt’s dad, John, had once mentioned Oyster Bay on Long Island. A quick search revealed promising wineries and quaint coastal vibes, we were sold.
We booked the last available room at what was generously described as a waterfront motel. Matt went inside to check us in and came back, not with a keycard, but with an actual key attached to a two-by-four block of lumber. I blinked. He blinked. “Well,” he laughed, “it’s late.”
The room itself was a time capsule. The fluorescent lighting buzzed and flickered with the enthusiasm of an interrogation room. The shag carpeting, straight out of the 1970s, had many stories to tell. Behind what appeared to be a wardrobe was a kitchenette, complete with a two-burner stove and a dusty coffee pot. The coffee grounds were pre-packed in foil pouches, possibly from the Carter administration.
The air conditioning was broken, replaced by a valiant old box fan propped in the window, rattling like it was clinging to life. The only thing missing was a chalk outline of a body on the floor, and even that felt like it could have been there the night before.
And yet, as with so many of our adventures, we made it work. We found a local spot serving lobster and crisp white wine, and returned to the motel just in time to catch the local news on a black and white TV. It worked, but only if one of us stood near it, holding the foil-wrapped rabbit ears just so.
For Cece’s first Thanksgiving away from home, we found ourselves in London, more specifically, at a Comfort Inn in Notting Hill. The Expedia photo had promised a charming boutique hotel nestled among elegant townhouses. In reality, we arrived at what could generously be called a well-worn establishment.
Our room was equipped with twin beds, a wobbly clawfoot bathtub strung with a sagging clothesline, and a TV no bigger than a lunchbox. There was a single window, but it didn’t open. The decor was an odd mix of floral carpet and suspicious lighting. Still, we were in London, and that counted for something.
Thankfully, the trip itself was wonderful. We explored endlessly, feasted on delicious meals, and marveled at all the sights that made London feel both grand and familiar. Matt particularly loved the London cabs, each one with a driver with a huge personality. Matt adapted to British currency very quickly (I, on the other hand, never fully recovered from the exchange rate.)
The pub in the hotel’s tiny lobby became a cozy spot to regroup. Matt befriended the bartender, who used tiny silver tongs to place exactly three cubes of ice into each of our water glasses, with the precision of a jeweler. It became part of our evening ritual.
One night, we asked for the non-smoking section at a restaurant. The hostess led us to a table in the center of the room. As we sat down, we realized that the only non-smoking thing about it was our request, every other table around us was filled with families smoking joyfully, children and grandparents alike puffing away in a festive haze.
It wasn’t the Thanksgiving of tradition, but it became one of those stories we would tell for years. And somehow, the uncomfortable beds, the smoky dinners, and the lunchtime-sized television made it all the more memorable.
Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.
Write a Letter to the Editor on this Article
We encourage readers to offer their point of view on this article by submitting the following form. Editing is sometimes necessary and is done at the discretion of the editorial staff.