There is something deliciously generic about a hotel room. When I'm far away from where I live, surrounded wholly by mass-produced prints and forgettably pleasant furnishings, I feel the contours of my own personality a little more nearly.

I am traveling to Florida this week. By car. Slowly. Meanderingly. This is the way I travel. Friends scoff, shake their heads, say it makes no sense to do anything but fly. Who has the time, they say? Who has the time not to, I say? Life will end one of these days, and I'd rather not look back and see images of flight attendants miming death avoidance tactics. But that's just me.

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