It was the early 1970s and I was recently divorced. I had three kids and was totally broke. I managed to find work back east on the straw-hat circuit - summer stock - but couldn't afford hotels, so I lived out of the back of my truck, under a hard shell.
I like being on the road, living in hotels. While I've got a real nice house, I go crazy when I'm there.
In America, Blackberry Farm in Tennessee is one of the most amazing hotels I've had the privilege of staying at.
I look for the hotels that have figured out the comfortable balance - a modern room that is well designed, and really clean sheets.
Life is a pilgrimage. The wise man does not rest by the roadside inns. He marches direct to the illimitable domain of eternal bliss, his ultimate destination.
I just want to stay in my hotel room, read my book. I enjoy that private time.
I don't do much else but stay in my hotel room.
Don't drink in the hotel bar, that's where I do my drinking.
I never write about the road. I never write about hotels or anything like that.
I am alone a lot, which is good. I need that time to just be alone after a long day, just decompress. So, I go to either my house or the hotel, or my apartment, or whatever - wherever I am, I go home and I watch TV and I sit there, with my cat, and I just watch TV or go online, check my emails.
I once went on the most grueling radio tour. Living in hotel rooms, sleeping in the backs of rental cars as my mom drove to three different cities in one day.
I own almost 100 hotels in North America. Some of them are only in management, but some of them we have some small stakes in them.
On 9/11, that morning, I was in a Christian Dior Couture appointment at the Hotel Pierre.
After years of hotels, I'm horribly inept at cleaning up after myself.
So many people treat you like you're a kid so you might as well act like one and throw your television out of the hotel window.
I've been having this really weird anxiety dream about arriving too late or too early, and the people in charge are like, 'You have to leave! You have to go back to the hotel and get ready!' And I use the wrong exit, and I'm running down the red carpet in pyjamas, like, 'No! Don't look at me!'
On the stage of the Italian Terrace Room in the William Penn Hotel in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in 1938 ... the place where Champagne Music was born.
[about the Hotel Marmont on Sunset Blvd., a piece of Hollywood history] I would rather sleep in a bathroom than in another hotel.
I'm not afraid of werewolves or vampires or haunted hotels, I'm afraid of what real human beings to do other real human beings.
Luckily, unreasonable expectations go hand in hand with naive young scientists. The more naive the better - otherwise we would never have the audacity to try and build a 22,000-mile-high space elevator or some sprawling underwater hotel.
This is an elegant hotel! Room service has an unlisted number.
Au revoir, jewelled alligators and white hotels, hallucinatory forests, farewell.
I often dream about the Dolphin Hotel.
But we are alone, darling child, terribly, isolated each from the other; so fierce is the world's ridicule we cannot speak or show our tenderness; for us, death is stronger than life, it pulls like a wind through the dark, all our cries burlesqued in joyless laughter; and with the garbage of loneliness stuffed down us until our guts burst bleeding green, we go screaming round the world, dying in our rented rooms, nightmare hotels, eternal homes of the transient heart.
I am Eloise. I am six. I live at the Plaza hotel.
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