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.
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 .
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,
But here’s the secret: That’s exactly why I love them now. In a world of Airbnb checklists and “contactless check-in,” the motel offers something radical: honesty.
For the road-tripper, the trucker, or the family with a station wagon full of screaming kids, the motel was a sanctuary. No bellhops. No tipping the valet. Just you, the key, and the open road. To understand the motel, you have to go back to the 1950s and 60s. The Interstate Highway System was being built. Americans had disposable income and a love affair with the automobile. But lately, I’ve started to think we’ve gotten
Unlike a traditional hotel, where you walk through a lobby, wait for an elevator, and shuffle down a carpeted hallway, the motel is brutally efficient. Your door opens to the outside. You park ten feet from your bed.
It’s not the hushed, sterile quiet of a Marriott lobby. It’s the silence of a parking lot at 2 AM. The hum of a vintage ice machine. The muffled sound of a TV playing Johnny Carson reruns from the room next door. The word itself tells you everything: Motor Hotel
Have you ever had a memorable (good or bad) motel experience? Tell me about the ice machine or the weird painting in the comments.