But if you choose wisely—the independently owned spot, the retro revival, the place with the neon cactus out front—you get something the Hyatt can never sell you: Atmosphere.
Next time you’re driving through a small town at dusk, don’t drive past the flickering sign. Pull in. Rent a room. Walk to the ice machine. Sit in that plastic chair and watch the sun set over the asphalt. But if you choose wisely—the independently owned spot,
We tend to look down on motels. We call them “no-tells” or “fleabags.” We drive past them on interstates, their neon signs flickering with vacancy. But lately, I’ve started to think we’ve gotten them all wrong. The motel isn’t a failure of hospitality. It’s a specific genre of travel, and one we’re losing. The word itself tells you everything: Motor Hotel . Rent a room