“It’s not creepy, it’s just Rachel,” the desk clerk at the Little A’le’Inn assured me via phone moments ago.
She’d just described the accommodations—something about conjoined trailers and a shared bathroom, and I'd have to call this a new low.
The quality of our accommodations have been steadily slipping. Although last night we camped in Yosemite, the night before we stayed in a rustic cabin about 26 miles from Yosemite National Park. The establishment was technically classified as a “motel”. In actuality, it was a loose conglomeration of conjoined cabins, mobile homes, dome tents and tepees with a plywood office/outdoor self-service coffee and tea station at the hub.
In a fluid sort of way, we were shooting for Yosemite, but as darkness began to descend, we found ourselves in a quaint, old-fashioned town with a gorgeous old hotel set in the center like a gem.
But alas, gems tend to be pricey and, as no one wants to end up destitute in the Deep South next week, so we passed on quaint and settled for rustic.
We are currently en route to Rachel Nevada, where we are heading at the insistence of my husband who is fascinated by all those weird documentaries about abductions one tends to flip past on late night TV.
Lucky me, I secured the last room when I called ahead to see if they have WiFi.
“No, no no. No, no.” the desk clerk said. So we pulled over at the town with the largest-print name on the map and found some free-floating Wi-Fi by which I compose this hasty post before heading off to spend the night with the aliens.
But as my husband gamely endures art shows, writer’s readings and book signings for my benefit, I can bite the bullet on this one.
All I can say is at least we’re not staying here: