When my mind wanders these days, I’ve noticed that it wanders to odd places — namely, far-off hotel rooms. Zurich, late last summer: the hotel was on the wrong side of the tracks but the room had big windows on two walls. Dallas, a few years back: the hotel had a huge atrium with a model railway; I ironed my shirt while listening to a podcast about the late-blooming composer Leoš Janáček. Rancho Mirage, January: the room was a sunny stroll away from reception; the pool looked tempting beside the desert palms, but was cold and full of leaves.
Why, of all things, would my mind jump to distant hotels? Not because anything much happened there: sadly, I must confess never to having done much of interest in a hotel room. Evidently, my memory is working in curious ways.
Last spring, I returned from the holiday of a lifetime in Japan, and reflected on the richness of the memories it had generated. Time flew by while I was there, but in hindsight 10 days somewhere vividly new had produced more memories than 10 weeks back home.