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Ever the romantic, I’ve always thought that hotel rooms hold a certain mystery. The way that they weave people’s lives together so inextricably by giving us a shared experience, makes me think of them as strangely endearing. The contrived luxury of crisp white sheets and a pristine toilet bowl tries (in vain) to mask the character and personality of a room. 

I’ve found myself imagining the lives of the hundreds of people that came before me, and the hundreds that are destined to follow. Lyndon Wade takes a slightly more realistic view of this idea with his expose of life in an American motel room. Room 107.

Thank goodness for industrial cleaning.

“This is where people come and leave: leave wet towels on the bathroom floor, leave half-full beer bottles on the nightstand, leave the bed unmade, hair on the toilet seat, stains on the ceiling, glitter in the carpet, holes in the wall, leave their lives, a mess for the morning maid. And after an hour, a day, a month, they leave all that they have left.

And you check in.”