From Laramie, With Life

When we travel, alone without their father, I opt for a story and save money in the seedy motels with creaking doors opening to my parking spot. If there isn’t cracking wallpaper borders at the lobby, gold varnished plastic light fixtures in the rooms, or character or actual DNA of characters embedded in the walls and bedding, you won’t find me.

We pull up to fits of giggles. This may be the worst one, yet. Roman rolls his gravel bike through the double front doors, angling to the side to kick open the second door and enter the spacious lobby. A box fan whirrs in the corner. Two attendants at the front desk do everything except attend to the guests.

There’s a buzz outside but we didn’t pay attention. The “Sushi Boat" sign to the left of the entrance had us mystified. We are in landlocked Laramie Wyoming. We will have to check it out.

Our room is 112. The door is no longer painted the pristine white they’d attempted a decade ago. The kids pull off the comforters and sniff the air. We push buttons on the window air conditioner, praying for power. It works. Roman wants to explore but, first, sushi.