I Remembered a Hotel Room I Had Never Slept In

I travel a fair amount, but this was a city I had never once set foot in, for a conference I had signed up for on short notice. I checked into a mid-range hotel, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and put my key card to the door of 419.

The lock clicked, I pushed the door open, and I stopped on the threshold with the strongest sense of homecoming I have ever felt in a strange place. I knew this room. Before I looked up I knew there would be a water stain on the ceiling above the bed, shaped like a bird in flight, and there was. I knew the top drawer of the dresser would stick and need a lift-and-pull to open, and it did, exactly. I knew that when I crossed to the window and drew the curtain, there would be a brick wall close on the left and a slice of a park on the right, and there was.