More restful than the most luxurious spa are the ordinary hotels of some Massachusetts towns. Many sit on large tracts of land, with mature trees and perennial beds, lawns mown with the precision devoted to baseball fields.
A morning stint by the pool might include the songs of real birds or a turtle-sighting. Precisely because the hotel’s interior contains little of interest, it is relaxing to inhabit. There is little stimulation, little to provoke thought, setting the mind at ease.
The hotel is a silent community, where the density that might produce bustle or camaraderie neutralizes and separates. Repetition tranquilizes and subdues. Occasionally a guest will appear on one of the lawn chairs or balconies, to gaze out at the still and empty scene.
A rest here of a night or two will drive a body off, in quest of clamor.