SoCal Blues

I think my hotel used to be a nice place. It’s just off the freeway in Santa Monica, down a street like many in Southern California, dusty and dull. Here the fair weather that draws visitors from across the globe wears the shine off of everything new, homogenizing the cityscape with just a touch of desert.

In my room there is a faint odor of cigarettes, and there are scuffs and stains on the furniture that won’t be removed by the hotel staff during the daily cleaning. When I try to turn on the bedside lamp the bulb has burnt out. It’s annoying, but it fits. The glass side of the elevator probably used to give a nice view of the city, but now the first thing you notice is the crust of some kind of dirt gathering in the cracks of the window.

A sign on the front of the building states in no uncertain terms that the parking spaces are for hotel guests ONLY! On the wall of my room is a “No Smoking” sign in faded yellow plastic. These signs are everywhere, from the sign on the soda machine reminding you that you are being watched by security cameras to the line in bold on the sign-in sheet notifying you that you must pay in advance.

I think this hotel used to be a nice place. I think someone must have been so proud when it was new. Even now you can see the outline of it in the halls. Looking out the window I imagine I can see the new owner sitting in the rooftop garden, watching the Southern California sun hovering over the western horizon.