by Todd Zuniga
LOS ANGELES, CA-
The hotel we booked online is communist concrete chic, a six-story bunker renting rooms. Inside’s a mess, shoved luggage carts piled into one another, floor littered with fliers, confused commotion at check-in. Olivia pulls the plug, says no way we’re staying.
Outside in light rain, a cab’s door automatically opens, we shimmy inside, name the only hotel we know: the Park Hyatt. The lone lodging Olivia wanted to avoid because she found it pretentious, we arrive at Lost in Translation’s three-towered megahotel, are told at the entrance that every room is booked, only suites remain.