James M. Flammang, author of more than two dozen
books, is at work on several more, including the
title described below.

A veteran automotive journalist, Flammang concentrates
on the "big picture," whether he's writing about cars,
consumer issues, simpler living, or any other topic.

During 2009, Flammang will be expanding his efforts
into the areas of work/labor, travel, and fiction.

Brief Summary: Hotel Life looks at the pleasures of living in hotel rooms, with few possessions, at a time when "everyone" is expected to covet big houses and amass a virtually endless supply of consumer goods. Based mainly on the author's own extensive experience in hotels over the past several decades - one-star to five-star, residential and strictly overnight, memorable and otherwise - this book maintains a light and breezy tone, despite its questioning of basic consumer values. In a humorous way, it asks a critical basic question: Do we really need, and want, so many "things" in our lives, including big homes and bigger cars?

Every time I pass a hotel, I want to check in. Maybe for a night, maybe for a week. Possibly a month.

Sometimes, a full year of residence sounds irresistible.

Not just fancy hotels, either. Nor nostalgic mom-and-pop motels along nearly-deserted old highways, though they nearly always promise and often deliver especially unforgettable delights. No, even the sight of a familiar Comfort Inn or a Hyatt alongside the Interstate, or a decaying dowager within the depths of downtown, instantly triggers an urge to step up to the check-in desk.

Most people - most Americans, at least - seem to crave a big, luxurious home on a spacious lot. You know the kind, complete with two cars in the garage and another posing in the driveway. That's what we're all expected to strive for, to covet, to be unhappy if we don't attain it. Two or 2.5 baths, a bedroom for each kid, patio and carport waiting.

Me, I just want a hotel room: possibly with some semblance of room service available for special occasions, but more likely a passable caf‚ down the street. If a window faces the outside world, noisy streets or not, all the better. TV is welcome, but telephone optional.

Maybe it's because I used to live in hotels. Cheap ones. At one time, long ago, I enjoyed a short stint as a night clerk in a Chicago hostelry that catered to long-term residents.

Even during the early years of marriage, we lived for a while in a hotel. In Las Vegas, of all places. Not one of those tacky high-rise monstrosities you see on the Strip nowadays, either. No, this was a little residential place right downtown, a block off Fremont Street. Weekly Rates, Private Bath, Cable TV with a black-and-white set, no less. This was the early '80s, after all, when cable was something new and little-known. Everything a person should need, don't you think?

We still look forward to hotel and motel stays with the enthusiasm of a consummate shopper who's stumbled upon the biggest sale ever.

For the past decade or more, my hotel experiences have reached a far loftier level. When a company is making the arrangements and paying the tab, the number of stars goes up. Way up. In addition to occupying a few dumps over the years, I've been a guest of such upscale outposts as the Four Seasons in several cities, various Ritz-Carltons, the Waldorf-Astoria and Mandarin Oriental in Manhattan, the Hana Maui resort in Hawaii, and the Hotel Schloss Fuschl in Salzburg, Austria. Plus more W Hotels than I can count.
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Note: Extended excerpts of Hotel Life will be added periodically.