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After midnight, with a view of the capital
The views got better. That was the only real difference. Well, the rooms were nicer, too. The chairs were more expensive, and the ceilings were less likely to be stained. There was room service, and someone would always leave a newspaper outside her door in the mornings, but after years of travel to conferences and meetings and presentations, the proof that she’d gotten older and more successful was that she could see something other than parking lots and dumpsters out of her hotel windows.
It was harder at first, all the travel. Packing up and leaving home for a few days of airports and rental cars and handshakes and conference rooms and the presentations that were always the same except they had different words, different visual aids. But these days the dinners with clients and the late nights in the hotel bars when nobody talked about being married were no big deal. Just one of those things. Just part of the job.
And like always, at the end of the day, before she’d go to bed and try to squeeze in a couple of hours of sleep so she could pretend to be well-rested in the morning, she’d take off her shoes and stand in front of the window, looking out at wherever she was. The cities were mostly all the same, just other places far away from home. But the views, they were different. They were better.
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