My son likes to stay in hotelsbecause they have great pools,but what I like is ironing a shirtwith the iron the hotel supplieson the board that folds into the wall,with the TV low, and whateverweather is going on outsidein its most intense and local phase,and what I feel in those momentsis both anonymous and myself,not father, not son. My motherwas full of warnings about hotels.One warning was never leave a glassbeside your bed, or you may flingout your hand and slice your wrist.And so I don’t. But then my son,back from the swimming pool, saysif you die wearing glassesyour ghost will wear glasses.I like to take off my glasses entering,then go to the window and look out.