Motels

This is the door to the perfect motel.

Or rather, this is the door to my room at the perfect motel. I’ve discovered a few things about myself during this road trip.
I like to drive up to the door of my room. I like the pillows to be slightly lumpy. I like the small decorating attempts - plastic flowers that haven’t been dusted since 1956, the furniture that tries but doesn’t really match, the soaps that come wrapped with labels i’ve never heard of.
Thus this motel made it to the top 3.

But really it’s not surprise - the Wigwam was the prize at the end of the road. But you ask why top 3 and not first? It did bump Hotel 7 (the bastard son of Motel 6 and Super 8) out of spot 2 but it came down to desk clerks.
The Wigwam is manned by the son of master wigwam builder. Son seems slightly disgruntled that he’s stuck with the things but soldiers on anyway - complaining of having to put up with all the publicity hounds - “the BBC with their cameras”, and the silly enquiries - “it’s only the Americans that come into the door marked motel with the big neon sign outside that says motel and ask me if I rent out the wigwams. I’ve never had a Europeon ask me that.” But even with the bad hair he couldn’t bump off the Tucumcari Inn. I stood at the desk and out of a side door comes a tiny little guy in stocking feet (grey tube socks), shorts, a puffy winter jacket, and a knit hat pulled down to his eyes. He then breaks into a spot on impersonation of Peter Sellars impersonation of an Indian accent. I feel very bad that I am making fun of his accent. He won the first place trophy by then offering me an ice bucket (what service!) that he had just removed from the freezer compartment of the refrigerator next to the desk. Inside the frozen bucket: a big lump of frozen ice cubes. My best sleep was at this motel: sweet dreams as my ice bucket slowly melted in the bathroom sink.