Simon Widdowson







Once upon a time where the desert meets the mountains on an old stretch of highway between somewhere and anywhere sat the Nomad Motel. It was difficult to miss with its pink painted window frames peeling like the bark from an old tree and the sky blue curtains hanging pleasantly behind them.
There were four floors that could be reached by a grand old staircase on which lay a worn old carpet with golden threads that caught the light when you opened the front door on a sunny afternoon and in the centre of the lobby was a statute of a man clutching a small suitcase, staring and smiling as if standing on the platform of a railway station waiting for the first train to anywhere to arrive right on time.
Some guests stayed for years, others came regularly for a brief pause, always leaving eager to return to the check in desk which was always open and where guests simply reached over the counter and grabbed any available key hanging from an old chain suspended from the ceiling. It didn’t really matter which key you chose since all the keys were the same and fit all the doors in the motel.
There was a small elevator in one corner of the lobby but most guests preferred to climb the grand old staircase that circled the walls of the Nomad Motel on their way to the top floor which led to a small rooftop terrace where you could see for miles and miles in every direction.
There must have been about 25 rooms, each one behind a heavy wooden door that creaked as you leaned your shoulder against its carved surface to push it open. Once inside a room in the Nomad Motel you could be anywhere you wanted.