am envious of most travelers, regardless of where they are going. On the scale of places I’d like to visit, Italy and Africa rank high while, say, Newport Beach slums somewhere in the low 100s, and yet, if a friend spent their weekend in Newport Beach, my response would be one of longing to accompany them. Implicit in this is a rather unsettling assumption that anywhere must be better than here. (I also know nothing about Newport Beach, except: Isn't it a cigarette?) The funny part is whenever my own trips approach, more often than not, my first instinct is that I’d rather stay home and cuddle with the cat.

But traveling isn’t always a pleasure. It carries with it a raft of inconveniences, anxieties, expenses, and (if you’re me) fear of death soon as the plane lifts from the runway. If I were to tell you that I spent yesterday in sun-drenched Tucson, which hit a blissful 80 degrees, and I returned to my hotel at 4pm, just in time to take a swim outside as the sun set and relax with a drink, you might be envious of me, too. But if I told you that the hotel was by the airport, that the pool was not much larger than a bathtub so that doing laps became a comic sport, that my scenic sunset view included RVs and blacktop, that the drink I settled for was a Diet Coke, found after three thwarted attempts on the third-floor vending area—you might not feel the same. And if I added that I fell asleep watching VH1’s “40 Wackiest On-Screen Pranks,” well, you might feel something more like pity. I would understand.

Then again, I’d only have to tell you about my hotel in San Diego to get your adrenaline thumping again. My hotel is nicer than any place I’ve ever stayed. After finding out I was writing a story about the city, the hotel kicked into high gear, and now I have my own butler. (His name is Peter, and yes, he’s cute.) Upon my arrival, he sent me complimentary wine, pistachios, and a delightfully arranged fruit tray. The bell boy placed them in my living room. (Oh, yes: I have a living room.) I have no less than two flat screen TVs and a fireplace that I won’t be needing. I have two balconies, one of which looks out on the pool, which looks out on the Pacific Ocean. It’s ridonculous.

And yet, there is something bittersweet in this experience—not the least of which is the tiny, unintentional insult that the hotel would like to buy me a complimentary dinner for two tomorrow night. (Peter, got any plans?) It does not feel like my life. It feels borrowed, like a diamond necklace I wear only to worry the whole night it’s going to break. How strange it would feel to deserve such treatment. How strange to have this life.

Still, it’s a damn nice place. I’m not giving it back. Envy me now. Hell, I would.