The Summer I Learned Why I Book a Hotel

When I travel, I book a hotel. Even when money is tight and the room is small, I look for someplace safe and clean where I can close the door. Travel already costs money and energy. The room is not an afterthought. It decides whether I come back at night and exhale or brace myself.

I don’t think family feeling is proved by sleeping under the same roof. A trip to a big city is not the same as visiting relatives. I can meet them for a meal, sit in their living room for an hour, bring fruit or a box of cakes, and sleep somewhere else. Living together is not a test of closeness. Sometimes it is the fastest way to wear closeness out.

The summer after I graduated from college, I had very little money. A college roommate invited me to Shanghai for a few days. I hesitated. Shanghai sounded expensive. She said her relatives ran a small supermarket there and had space for me. I thought about it: no hotel bill, and after graduation it would be hard to find another chance to travel together. I said yes.

Her relatives were generous. They meant well, and they had little space. The room was a loft above the supermarket. The ceiling was low. I could not stand up straight. Several children slept up there. It was summer, and there was one electric fan. The toilet was downstairs, in a narrow space where I could barely turn around. I carried my suitcase up the ladder and stood there for a few seconds. My roommate said, “Just make do for a few days.” I said, “Okay.”

That night I hit my head several times. I would wake up, forget where I was, lift my head, and knock it against the roof. To use the bathroom I had to go down the ladder. After a shower I had to climb back into the heat. The fan turned with a squeak. I lay there and thought: I want to go to a hotel.

The next day I brought it up. I said I did not want to keep disturbing them, that there was a hotel nearby, and I could stay there and come back in the daytime to meet them. The relative did not say much. She was older, and I think she understood. Then she turned to my roommate and said, “Then you go with her.” My roommate said, “No, that costs money. Isn’t this fine? We’re leaving in two days.”

I opened my mouth and said nothing. I already felt bad for imposing. I had troubled my friend and her relatives, and they had been good to me. If I insisted, I would look ungrateful. The hotel plan died there.

There were other frictions. During the day we went out. At night I wanted to walk around by myself. The adults said it was not safe. I had already graduated from college. I was an adult. Still, they said it was not safe, and my roommate had to come with me. When she came, her two younger sisters came too. One evening they planned to visit other relatives. I said I would go out for a walk alone. They said no, not safe. In the end the children went with the adults, and my roommate and her two sisters walked around the neighborhood with me. I walked in front. They followed. I felt like something that needed to be watched. I could not say what was wrong. Everyone was being kind.

Going out had the same friction. I wanted to buy something; they thought it was too expensive. I wanted to eat something; they did not want to spend the money. I could not afford to pay for three other people. For those few days I did not enjoy the trip, the food, or the room. But I could not point to a villain. Her relatives were hospitable. My roommate was decent. That was the hard part. When no one has done anything wrong, you cannot complain without sounding spoiled. You also cannot relax, because relaxing needs a boundary.

I never borrowed a room again.

It was not because they were bad people. It was because people have different habits and different tolerances. The loft was one problem. The rest was smaller and more constant: what time you come back, when you shower, whether the air conditioner can be on, whether you can go out alone, what you eat, how much you spend. A trip is supposed to be a break. Instead, every night I climbed into that loft and sighed before I lay down.

After that, I booked a hotel first. If my budget was tight, I chose a clean, safe budget hotel. It was not fancy. It did not need to be. The door closed, and the room was mine. I could throw my bag on the floor, take off my shoes, and lie on the bed. I could scroll through my phone without first wondering whether I was in someone’s way. In the morning I looked at my plan and left when I wanted. I ate what I wanted. I walked alone.

When people invite me to stay at their home, I say I have already booked a hotel and will come by during the day. They say that feels distant. I say I am a bad sleeper. The reason is half true, and it is enough.

A trip to a big city and a visit to relatives are two different things. I can meet for dinner, sit in the kitchen and eat fruit, and bring a small gift. Living in the same house is not required. If anything, forcing it can cost the relationship more than a hotel bill.

For several years after that Shanghai trip, I traveled alone. Even now I prefer to do things alone. It is not that I do not need people. It is that I know what I need. When I travel, I save money on many things. I do not save on the room. I want to close a door that is mine.