This was the era of the "Mom and Pop" joints. Places with names like The Starlite , The Blue Top , or The Desert Palm . They had kidney-shaped pools, vibrating beds (for a quarter), and neon signs that promised "Air Conditioning" and "Color TV" as if they were miracles.
We tend to look down on motels. We call them “no-tells” or “fleabags.” We drive past them on interstates, their neon signs flickering with vacancy. But lately, I’ve started to think we’ve gotten them all wrong. The motel isn’t a failure of hospitality. It’s a specific genre of travel, and one we’re losing. This was the era of the "Mom and Pop" joints
The is not dead. It has simply grown up. From an innovative solution for Model T drivers to a symbol of mid-century optimism, followed by a dark night of seedy desperation, and now emerging as a chic, nostalgic escape—the motel mirrors the American journey itself. We tend to look down on motels
Most motels are one- or two-story buildings, emphasizing a smaller physical footprint than high-rise hotels. The motel isn’t a failure of hospitality
By the 1970s and 80s, the began to fall from grace. The same interstates that built the motel eventually killed the original model. When a new highway bypassed your exit, your business vanished overnight.
The word "motel" evokes a specific, almost cinematic imagery: the neon sign buzzing against a twilight sky, the sleek curvature of a 1950s sedan parked outside a pastel-painted door, and the promise of rest just off the endless ribbon of the American highway.