Who’s a Germaphobe?

Story and Photos by John O’Bryan

The cheap hotel I found somewhere in Idaho (its name is omitted to protect the innocent, and the guilty) had a very nice website, with reasonable prices, and all of their rooms were suites. This suited me fine. If I had to be away from Moscow and my family on business for a few days, why not get a suite? Sleep in one room, work in the other.

Plus the price was cheaper than the nationally known hotel chain’s plain ol’ room with two queen beds. The ratio of savings to luxury was just about perfect. I ignored the warning bells that fired in my head as I booked a room for three nights. How bad could it be? 

I hate falling victim to advertising and shady marketing schemes. The sad thing is I usually know better. I’m a cynic at heart and carry around low expectations, like Eeyore looking for his tail, and because of that I’m never surprised when I pull my McChicken out of the bag and it looks like it’s been held tightly in someone’s armpit or that the new X-ray glasses I ordered from the back of a comic book won’t actually allow me to see through walls. I have come to expect such disappointments. 

The problem is, I love a lot of stuff. My willingness to suspend disbelief is determined by the amount of money I might save and how large the potential is that an item will be awesome. If there’s a chance I could pay less for something that I know should cost more or if there’s the possibility an item will make my life somehow better, the belief in that thing borders on idolatry.

A still, small voice of doubt always echoes somewhere in my head, but I mostly ignore it. I firmly believe there are such things as free lunches and am confident that before I die, I will, at some point, get something for nothing.