Since I’ve started traveling for work, friends and family have asked me, “How is This City?” and I don’t know what to tell them. I get off a plane onto a train or a taxi straight to Hotelandia where I work, sleep and eat, outside of some modest evening exploration with colleagues to blow our expense account suppers.

The night before I left for Atlanta, Sam asked what hotel I’d be in.

“I don’t know. Probably a Hyatt or Marriott.”

It was both.

The Hyatt.

The Marriott.

The Marriott was like being in a Giger painting. Any moment the walls would eat me.