A Boston bound day, took us through Yale, to a mall for lunch and finally to our motel for the night.
It was everything I’d always wished for in an American motel. Situated on the side of the highway, a bold neon sign proclaimed it’s vacancy. Across the parking lot was a bowling alley conjoined with a diner and bar. The diner had bright red vinyl booths and the moody bar was lit by bulbs that hung over pool tables.
The music was loud and the wine was cheap. I played until the dizzy gutterballs became continuous, at which point I found my way to bed in the neon motel.