There is something I absolutely love about sketchy motel rooms.  I know that’s not a normal way to begin a paragraph, but it’s true, I love them.  I can’t exactly explain why but there’s a certain mystique that comes along with them to me.  I’m not even talking about the two-star Ramada Inn that made you mad because they didn’t bring fresh towels every day.  I’m talking the ‘Joe’s Motel & Bar’ type establishment with truck parking around back and a room full of mismatched items ranging from the past 40 years.  I’ve always enjoyed staying in hotels and making them my little home away from home, but in recent years with ample travel I’ve fully embraced my motel passion.  This may be another reason I feel such a strong connection with the transient lifestyle.  However, there’s always something waiting for me at the end of the line – home.  Knowing that there is a home is a large part of why the motel stops are so enjoyable to me.  They are these unique little single-serving homes that I get to open, use, and disregard as I leave to venture back to my real home.  I often wonder though if the appeal would be quickly lost if there was no end of the line, and no place to return to.