The good holiday

Well . . . oh well. It was a good holiday. How was I to know all the rooms were booked? No sooner than I had begun checking my bags, the no vacancy sign started flickering. At first it seemed like a typical malfunction. Then the front desk clerk, who had just greeted me so warmly — suggesting I should have a look at the suite — vanished. The hubbub of the lobby, filled with a few guests I wanted to meet, fell quiet. They must have departed, and probably wouldn't have been my type, but who knows? One always feels generous while traveling as a VIP. At length I realized there must have been some mistake. The lights grew dim, as if the owner was stingy. As you can imagine, I was getting irritated the longer I stood there by myself, enduring the awful buzz of the sign. I found the intercom and called for assistance. After some time, the desk clerk answered blithely, "Unfortunately, sir, the suite is not available." Of course, by then I wasn't surprised, it all made sense. Still, I thought I deserved that room. Because I've learned to appreciate hospitality, I'm a much better guest than I used to be. (Not to mention that I heard the current occupant never shows up these days, and was ungrateful for the latter part of his stay, but they leave his bags in the suite, untouched. Of course I'm an interested party here, so doubt me if you will, but that's not a good way to take care of things. Personally, I wouldn't hesitate to evict his belongings once a promising new guest appeared.) At length I replied to the clerk, "Very well, so it is. I shall be leaving." I paused for one last look at the lobby — my eyes had quickly adjusted to the dim light. For some reason, I needed to remember this place. There was plenty of time to catch the train home; I know the time-tables by heart. If you miss one, another will appear soon — and besides, I feel at home in a train station. Sorrow lies among all these people sitting beside their bags, and a sense that none of us really knows if we're arriving or departing. Well. The furniture, paintings, and decor were lovely, but mostly I kept recalling the clerk smiling at me across the marble countertop. I do think she meant well. She was so charming: I could think of nothing better than carrying her into the suite, talking on the balcony, laughing together, forgetting our cares. I was dazzled, really — hadn't felt that way in years. It was not to be. At least, with some prodding, she had the good graces to let me know this before disappearing once and for all. She reminded me that my home is too small, and I mustn't let myself be cloistered there. I am a wanderer; I must, I will, embark again and again, even if I one day find someone who awaits my return (and one must depart to ever know the joy of returning). I doubt my soul shall ever be at home; it always seems to be elsewhere, always leads me out into the world. With a strange hopeless pain, I gathered my bags and set off for the train station. The streets were empty. There were no tears to cry.