When I leave a hotel room, I try not to worry if I’ve left something behind. In part because details are just not my gig, but also I like to think it’s my gift to the next guest. Here you go. I’m paying it forward.

I head downstairs, choosing to have lunch in the hotel restaurant before I get the car – which is parked forever away.  So, I have on my person three bags and a carry-on. Which, yes, I realize is ridiculous.

The host greets me, “Ah, heading home today, ma’am?”


“And where is home for you?” Surely I cannot tell him that I brought all of this with me when I live only 20 minutes away.

“Um, Ohio.” I mean, not entirely a lie. It’s not where I’m headed right this very moment with this monstrosity of baggage, but I do feel a sense of homecoming when I arrive in the Akron/Canton airport.

“And is this your first time in Denver?”

“No, I have family here.” As in, my six- and eight-year-old whom I’ll pick up from school this afternoon.

Just couldn’t say it. Oh, this? Yes, it made sense to me to bring all this nonsense on a trip that’s barely outside my zip code.

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