Cars, planes, airports and hotel rooms all share a single sound: that constant tv-show-spaceship susurrus of air-conditioning. So many hotels seem to embrace the metaphor. It’s not a serviced room in a communal space you rent. It’s an excursion pod, a lander, a module from which you can view the alien vista outside. The more you pay, the bigger the module, the more chance there is of having a…
This reminds me of the fact that I’m not going to Comic-Con this year, meaning that my traditional five-day-or-so sojourn in hotel rooms won’t be happening. It’s a very strange experience, that almost-week, and the hum of the air conditioning (and resultant chill as I get out of bed each day) is a constant part of it.
As upset as I was about not going when I found out, the closer we get to the event, the more at peace–perhaps even eager–about not attending I get.
(I really enjoy Ellis’ short essays each day on Morning, Computer.)