There’s no place like home. Well, that’s true. Thank you, ruby slippers.

But honestly, there’s no place like a hotel.

Is it even a contest?

Right now, I’m sitting in a hotel coffee shop. It’s 6:30 a.m., and I am the only one here. It’s like having my own personal Starbucks.

I’m sipping robust black tea in a recyclable cup. The sound system is playing a mix of artists I don’t recognize because I am old, but the music is soothing. I have a comfortable seat, a nearby outlet for charging my laptop, and a delightful sense of freedom.

I’m traveling for the first time in, well, years — visiting my daughter, who currently lives in a far-flung land called California. And while I could complain about the misery of travel — the crowded airplanes, the ridiculously expensive airport food, the confusion of moving through three time zones — I won’t.

Because I currently enjoying Hotel Life. That is, the best possible lifestyle. In my next life, if there is a next life and I get a choice, I’d be a modern-day Eloise, the personality-plus darling of children’s literature who lives with her nanny and pug and turtle in New York’s Plaza Hotel.

And yes, I brought work with me. (Such are the blips and bumps of freelance life. If you’re lucky enough to have work, you make it happen. And the thought of making a little money on vacation is not a bad thing.)

Anyway, Hotel Life. Sure, there are the amenities — the workout room, the pool, the dependable Wi-fi. But the real jewel in the crown? The complete freedom from tedious day-to-day responsibilities.

There’s no need to take out the garbage. No need to even remember when garbage day is. Every day is garbage day at a hotel — but it’s not your responsibility! Who cares!

Food? Not your problem. Every meal is a meal out.

Cleaning up after dinner? What’s that?

Laundry is not a concern. Just bundle your dirty clothes back in the suitcase and hope that they sort themselves out when you return to the real world, whatever that is.

There are no grocery lists. No wondering if you already scooped the cat litter or not. No cleaning of any sort.

In a weird sense, living in a hotel is a return to the carefree days of childhood, when (even if you had some chores butting into your fun-and-games life now and then) you didn’t have the cumbersome, boring duties of adulthood that turn everyone bleak and worried, or at the very least, tired.

And yes, people say it gets old. Life on the road is no picnic, pontificated every 1980s rock star from Bob Seger to Bon Jovi. (And that was decades before they could peek into 2022 and see the state of 21st-century airline travel.)

I get it. Maybe Hotel Life would lose its charm after a while. But I’d like to live it long enough to find out.

Charlotte is a columnist for The Times. You can reach her at charlottelatvala@gmail.com.