I’ve been in Seattle for about a day and a half now (well, technically Puyallup, which is an hour South, but more on that later). It’s a rainy morning and I don’t feel like doing a ton of walking today, so I thought I’d hang out at this cozy little Fremont café and write about something that’s been on my mind since this tour began: motels.

As I mentioned at start of this series, I set a rule for this iteration of Ghost on the Highway that, wherever possible (and assuming I couldn’t crash with friends in the city I’m visiting), I would avoid Airbnb in favor of cheap motels and hotels. I’m thinking it’s time to finally flesh that out a bit.

I’ve had many great experiences at Airbnbs over the years. I’ve stayed in apartments, houses, cottages, cabins, hostels, and this one weird place that had chickens in the backyard. A good Airbnb host can leave you with a warm, memorable experience that accentuates your vacation.

And yet, something about it doesn’t feel quite right. Even during the most peaceful, luxurious Airbnb stay I can never shake the feeling that I’m occupying somebody else’s home, an intruder in their space. It doesn’t matter that they put it up for market and I’m paying for the privilege, I still feel like an interloper, that the place isn’t mine. (I suppose I also have this feeling when I’m staying with friends, but it’s different when you know someone. I would happily host any of the people who’ve put me up if they came to my town, whereas most of my Airbnb hosts I’m content to never see again.)

Most Airbnb experiences necessitate at least some level of personal contact between guest and host. When you book the host asks you where you’re from and why you’re visiting the area. Often you run into them either by accident or design and find yourself making small talk for 25 minutes when you really just want to crash. Again, depending on the host sometimes this can be a truly joyous experience, but as an introvert it always requires some extra emotional effort on my part.

Motels, by contrast, are purely transactional. They don’t care who you are, where you’re from, or what you did, as long as you have a credit card and ID. They’ve seen it all, and short of committing murder or making meth in the bathtub there’s little you can do in that room to incur their judgment. You’re just a number of them; one of dozens of anonymous bodies that will ruffle the bed sheets that week. In a motel I truly am a ghost, and that’s just the way I like it.

(Not to mention that at this point motels are often cheaper than Airbnb. That wasn’t the case when I started this project back in 2017, but with the explosive growth of the online homestay industry it seems to me that things have flipped. Even the lowest-listed Airbnbs often trick you by tacking on a ridiculous $50 “cleaning fee” at the end even if you left the place immaculate.)

There’s a bit of an aesthetic, quasi-political dimension to this too. Motels are a dying institution in this country and I think that’s sad. This is a uniquely American institution that’s directly tied to the culture of automobiles and road travel. They’re cheap and accessible to working class families, and often a vital resource to those whose housing situation is in peril. By contrast, Airbnb has been widely criticized for driving up housing prices in already-expensive cities, and in some cases shady landlords have evicted tenants so that their properties could be converted into online rentals.

To be fair, motels don’t always have a stellar reputation either. I recall one time my friend Jake and I rented a motel in Central Washington. The room was imbued with a musty funk, the carpet stained with cigarette burns and the bed slashed up with what appeared to be knife marks. After noticing the bugs in the sink we realized this place just wasn’t for us, so we bailed and found another motel across town.

(Having related that, however, I feel compelled to tell the story of an Airbnb I booked in Wichita, Kansas. When I arrived after a 9 or 10 hour drive it took the host several hours to come by and unlock the place, and once I got inside I noticed that the unit was filthy with no shower curtain and a toilet that didn’t flush. I had to bail on that one too.)

So far I’ve stayed at six different motels and hotels, half of which have been operated by Motel 6. The 6 is a reliable chain with clean rooms and low rates, but unfortunately they skimp on all but the most basic necessities; each of their rooms has only two pillows, no microwaves and no refrigerators (and the ice buckets are just too small to fit a six-pack of beer).

But for the Seattle leg of this trip I’ve been treated to a whole new level of class. My brother, who works for a national hotel chain, hooked me up with a criminally good deal on a 3-star hotel in Puyallup. This affords me access to a comfy king-sized bed, a fitness room, a swimming pool and, most importantly, the continental breakfast. As excited as I am to be in this area and visit so many friends and places I haven’t seen in years, I’m equally stoked about that free grub in the lobby each morning.

Okay, I think I can shut up about this topic now. I know travel blogs are supposed to focus on cities/locales and all of their attendant attractions (and I’ll definitely be sharing my Seattle experience in the coming days) but I think one’s mode of travel is just as important. The medium is the message, et cetera, et cetera…