I’ll guess that I’ve spent at least two or three months of my life living in a particular hotel in Virginia Beach (including finishing the Scala Cookbook there), and this photo/painting is an ode to that place.
Back in 2009 I went on a yoga retreat in Sayulita, Mexico, and thanks to a glitch in the scheduling, I stayed in this muy expensivo honeymoon suite on the top of the mountain.
I had a chance to watch part of the History of the Eagles when my RAV4 broke down and left me stranded in New Mexico, and it was good. If you like The Eagles, you’ll like the documentary.
The Arctic Caribou Inn, aka, the “Hilton” of Deadhorse (Prudhoe Bay), Alaska. I drove up there once upon a time in early August, 2007.
A nice thing about most hotels in Santa Fe is that they treat water like you’re living on the Space Station. They have signs like, “You may have noticed that there’s not a lot of water around here. Please don’t waste it! Thank you, the management.”
At restaurants they usually only give you water if you ask for it, and I remember one time a waitress asked if I was really going to drink it or just look at it.
All of which reminds me of being at a hostel one time, where there was a sign that said, “Save water, shower together.” :)
On this day a few years ago, when I first moved to Colorado, I was living in two hotels and an apartment, a by-product of moving here from Alaska, with all of my belongings in my car. (Little did I know it, but I would move again a month later.)
This is a page from my book, “How I Sold My Business: A Personal Diary”
My wife and I have separated after twenty years of marriage. I've avoided mentioning anything here until this point because I didn't think it was relevant to the process of selling the business, but now that we are separated, I think it's important to mention it here.
I’m laying in bed in my apartment, and there’s a knock at the front door. It’s dark, so as I walk to the front door to see who’s there, I see white light coming in from all sides around the door. “Must be one heck of a light out there,” I think. I open the door, and my wife (who I’m separated from) is standing there, and this white glow is all around her.
I don’t even get a chance to think or say hello, and she says, “You died in a hotel in 1984. Everything since then has been a dream.”
With this, I instantly wake up in my bed. My body is shaking like crazy, but I jump up, look back and think, “I am NOT getting back into that bed tonight.”
As I walk around the apartment debating about whether I should try to sleep on the floor or just go into work at four o’clock in the morning, I remember ... I did spend a lot of time in a hotel in 1984.
I can’t remember the name of the motel where I saw this, but this is a photo of a painting of sled dogs that I came across in Healy, Alaska, just north of Denali. (I remember the motel because I used to work with a nice guy named Carson, and a guy that could have easily passed as his twin brother worked there.)
In 2014, my mom, three sisters, two nieces, and I went to a hotel in Santa Fe, New Mexico known as The Lodge at Santa Fe. Shortly after we got in bed the first night, I was in the hypnagogic state between being asleep and awake when I saw three young Native American girls. When I first saw them they asked, “Do you know who we are?”