Chillin' at the Quality Inn

I began to sort our laundry into piles as my mom passed it to me through the window. Oliver, our cat, sat in the corner in misery. He had not been outside in weeks, and his litter box really smelled. Later that night, I tried in vain to play my video games in peace, knowing full well that living with four people in one room would allow for precious few quiet moments. This was our experience living in the Quality Inn for three months.

            We had just moved to a strange and unfamiliar place known as Indio. In addition to our room, our reduced rate of $50 a night got us a continental breakfast (complete with pre-packaged cereal and bland scrambled eggs that required a liberal dousing of salt). One time, my brother and I got into a betting war with our parents over the nature of the Cheerios they served (they insisted they were honey nut, but our youthful taste buds could easily detect the distinct lack of sugar). It turns out we were right, but, as parents, I suppose they reserved the right to decide not to pay us.

            The hotel manager, who reminded me of Apu from the Simpsons (a high complement), seemed to barely tolerate our stay, particularly when our room began to grow mold and we had to move all of our belongings to another room. While most of my memories of living at the Quality Inn consist of swimming in a very cold pool and watching surprisingly engaging telenovas at the Laundromat, I know looking back that I grew closer to my family during those three months than any self-respecting twelve-year-old should.