I have always had a fascination with old Motels,
imagining families on vacation, cruising cross country down route 66, going out west, discovering their next adventure. Or the traveling salesman, going from one motel to the next to rest between each days appointments.
Old motels seem to be a dying breed. A part of our past, frozen in time; the perfect backdrop to countless stories. A location for murder, general debauchery, over zealous college kids, prostitutes, and the downtrodden. A safe or maybe not so safe haven on the road. But
most people just see them as a cheap place to park the family, get some rest, and maybe have a swim before moving on.
For me they conjure up so many different scenes, many involving smoking, alcohol, sex and drama. Cheap early morning breakfasts of bacon and eggs, white toast, and hot coffee served by Mabel with the beehive hairdo in her coral pink uniform. The lone traveller in his room, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, a television picture interfered with static, booze bottles strewn across the table, the remnants of past days figuring out the next move. Clandestine meetings between lovers, the special knock at the door, a welcoming embrace, curtains drawn, dim lighting, the bottle of André sweating, just purchased from the liquor store down the street with 2 plastic cups by its side. Above the television, a lone crimson rose illuminated by a streak of sunlight peeking through the curtains, revealing the backdrop of velveteen damask patterned wallpaper in burnt umber.
This sets the stage for what attracts me to these places and what I love so much about them.
