You Can Check Out Any Time You Like,

but you can never leave. Welcome to the Hotel California. Such a lovely place, such a lovely place. Except that it’s not, and it’s in Florida, and it’s weird as hell. Somehow in the land of high rises, this place missed the wrecking ball. It’s right out of the 50’s and I keep expecting Annette Funicello to start twisting on the beach in her modest two piece. As one Boomlennial who has been coming here since she was a child said “it’s one step above camp”. And it is. Outdated, little efficiency apartments, no restaurants or swim up bar (aghast!), but on the ocean and nice pool. Clean. You would think that after fifty plus years those tubs would have been Ajaxed raw, and they are. The managers that check you in are Yvonne, or Kathy, or Kvon as I say because they look alike and I’m sure there’s only one of them but they start messing with you from the beginning. ‘This could be heaven or this could be hell’. Then there’s The Mayor and Mrs. Mayor who stay much of the winter and have their routine. Most of which consists of sitting on their little patio and talking to anyone and everyone. All day. Everyday. There’s the man who looks like the bartender at the Diamond Grille in Akron and just makes me thirsty, and the creepy couple with an old old woman and younger man who walks bent over like he’s charging into war. ‘There were voices down the corridor……’ The sad thing about this sad place is I love it. And fit right in. ‘Some dance to remember, some dance to forget’. This is my third vacay here and I bet the regulars are telling weird stories about me, ‘We are all just prisoners here, of our own device’. It is just easy. Think sweat pants and faded bathing suits. Writing a blogue on your patio after laying at the beach all day and watching the palm trees sway. Open doors and free coffee and water. Who needs alcohol? (Me). ‘They livin it up at the Hotel California. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave’.