The Geography of Bliss

doesn’t work. We take our baggage with us. I’m not so
sure. Travel, at its best, transforms us in ways that aren’t
always apparent until we’re back home. Sometimes we do
leave our baggage behind, or, even better, it’s misrouted to
Cleveland and is never heard from again.
After lunch, Lisa drops me off at the Tomb. I am
immediately accosted by a platoon of jacketed attendants,
inquiring about my day and whether I need anything, want
anything, or anticipate needing or wanting anything in the
near future. That’s it. I do need something. I need to check
out, and I need to check out now. I’m sure at some point
down the road—when I am, say, dead—I will find a tomb
very appealing indeed. But not now. Not yet.
I pack my bags and hand the well-dressed man at
reception my credit card.
“Was everything satisfactory” he asks, noting that I am
checking out several days early.
“Oh, much more than satisfactory,” I say. “Much, much
more.”
He gives me a slightly perplexed look before reverting to
his corporate smile. A few minutes later, I’m checking into
another hotel—no fleabag, mind you, but not a tomb, either.
No one greets me at the lobby entrance. A good start. I
notice that the ceiling paint is beginning to peel. There’s a
small crack in one wall. A wave of relief washes over me.
My new hotel, though, does possess one brilliant luxury: a
pool with a swim-up bar. If there is any invention that makes
one feel more decadent, more thoroughly leisured than a
swim-up bar, I have yet to find it. As I dog-paddle up to this