My wife, Kodi, and I have a rule about getaways.
They don’t have to be far. They don’t have to be fancy. They just have to be ours.
So when we carved out a couple of nights recently, we didn’t book a flight or map out a road trip. We drove back to a place I’d been before: the Marriott Residence Inn in Waynesboro, Virginia.
I’d first visited last year to write about the property and its remarkable staff. I came home talking about a breakfast host named Pam who treated strangers like nieces and nephews, and a general manager named Kris who somehow made a morning staff meeting feel more like a family reunion.
Kodi listened patiently.
Then she asked the obvious question.
“So when do I get to go?”
Fair enough.
This time there was no assignment. No interviews. No notebook. Just the two of us, a suite with more room than we needed, and absolutely nothing demanding our attention.
I’d forgotten how different a Residence Inn feels from a typical hotel room. There’s a real kitchen. A real living room. Space to spread out instead of simply spending the night. It feels less like checking into a hotel and more like borrowing someone’s apartment for a couple of days.
But the moment I’ll remember happened outside.
Just after sunset, we wandered onto the patio and found the fire pit already glowing beneath the pergola lights. We settled into two comfortable chairs, propped our feet on the stone ledge, and watched the sky slowly trade its blue for black.
No phones.
No agenda.
Just my sneakers beside her boots, both pairs pointed toward the flames, and a conversation that only shows up when you’ve finally been still long enough to hear it.
After a while Kodi looked over at me.
“Why don’t we do this at home?” She wasn’t really talking about the fire.
Maybe because at home, even the fire comes with a to-do list. There’s always one more email, one more load of laundry, one more project waiting just inside the back door.
Here, someone else carried all of that for us. For two days, our only responsibility was each other.
The next morning we headed down for breakfast. Pam remembered me. Of course she did.
Within minutes she was fussing over Kodi, asking if she needed anything, making sure everything was just right. I sat there smiling as my wife was adopted into Pam’s extended family before she’d even finished her orange juice.
Later, as we walked back to our room, Kodi laughed.
“Okay,” she said. “Now I understand why you kept talking about this place.”
That’s the thing about this Residence Inn. The rooms are comfortable. The breakfast is good. The fire pit is lovely.
But those aren’t the reasons people come back. People come back because of the people.
A room key can get you through a hotel door. Only genuine hospitality makes you feel like you’ve come home.
We’ve already started talking about another visit.
Kodi wants the fire pit.
I want the breakfast.
Fortunately, we don’t have to choose.
If you and your someone have been meaning to get away but keep waiting for the perfect trip, don’t. Sometimes you don’t need a passport, a week off work, or an elaborate itinerary.
Sometimes you just need two unhurried nights, two chairs by a fire, and nowhere else to be.