To me hotels are surreal zones, where rock stars die and women dance

Withdrawing from a vibrant world into the solitude of four walls can be dehumanising. But the chance to bring an old pal to hospital changes that

I HAD tea and buns in the Gresham last week, which gave me a buzz because as a child I used to think that ordinary people weren’t allowed in there.

In the foyer a Christmas tree was being decorated, as perfectly as it might be in an American movie, which fitted with my memory as a child that only Americans were wealthy enough to stay in the Gresham. On those wintry evenings, my mother held my hand and walked me past the concierge in his top hat, on our way to Parnell Square, where father was always waiting in the little red Austin A30, looking at his watch, and chastising mother for spending too much time in Arnotts as he drove us back the long black road to Cavan, and to ordinary life.

After the buns, I headed for the Luas, and dozed, between two old women, my daydreams ruddered by the soothing voice of the dual language announcements for each stop. Hospital. Ospidéal San Séamus. Golden Bridge. An Droichead Orga.

Closer to Tallaght, the crowd thinned, the old ladies vanished, and I was left with a few other unremarkable people clutching shopping bags, without much myth or joy in their faces, except for a young woman with an enormous bunch of lilies.

I saw neon signs for Harris, Hino and Isuzu flash past, and a car park full of glistening white trucks, and sometimes through the glass I could see bleak concrete walls, barbed wire, and shadow-filled alleyways of despair, but after Cookstown I noticed the windows of Tallaght hospital, and the interior seemed as warm as mother’s kitchen viewed from outside on Christmas Eve.

As the train slowed, a woman in a red jacket, with a Roscommon accent asked me, “Is this the last stop?” I said, “Yes.” And crossing the car park at Tesco a few minutes later, I saw her again, clutching an envelope with an address. I said, “Are you alright?” She said, “I haven’t a clue where I am, but I’m going to get a taxi.”

In a supermarket called Costs Less, a young woman from India, or maybe Pakistan, handled the till and took €1 from me for a bottle of Radox bath oil. An ultraviolet light from the Casino next door drew me in, through a blast of warm air, but the sight of a few men at a wall of slot machines, staring into some other world was enough to make me reverse again.

In my hotel room, I threw half the Radox into the bath, though it didn’t do much except generate a mountain of suds. The central heating droned away all evening and I couldn’t sleep. So at 2am I phoned reception and asked for another room, which I got, though the porter, on the first try, walked me into a room where a man was snoring, and wasn’t amused when he saw me and the porter at the end of his bed.

As we fled to find another room I said to the porter, "That reminds me of a scene from Moby Dick." But I don't think he had read the book.

To me hotels are surreal zones, where rock stars die and women dance at the glass walls that overlook large cities, where masseurs come and go eating pizzas between clients, and assassins wait for the right time to do the business.

Checking into a hotel, I always feel I am escaping from ordinary life, where I am known and where I belong.

Because there is a bit inside me that belongs nowhere, and sometimes it itches, and hotel rooms are where I learn to be nobody. But Tallaght is not a suburb of Moscow, and it’s hard to be nobody in Ireland for long.

The next morning who was sitting in the foyer, the light of a clear day falling on his frail head, but the general – a man I hadn’t seen for ages – looking broken.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Not great.” “What’s up?” “The prostate,” he said, terrified.

“I have to see a specialist in the hospital.” A pause. “The wife texted,” he added quietly, as if he wasn’t altogether consoled by such a message. “Is she away?” “She’s in Tenerife,” he said. “I think.” “Well,” I said, “I’m in RTÉ this afternoon, but this morning I’m free. Maybe I can accompany you?” “Ah,” he said, “that would be wonderful. ”

And from his smile, I realised that I too was somebody again, with an ordinary life.

Checking into a hotel, I always feel I am escaping from ordinary life, where I am known and where I belong