Let's take a minute to talk about hotel rooms.

After my phone interview on Wednesday, it seemed like a good idea to get the jump on things. Naturally, going down to Terre Haute to participate in a faculty workshop was an ideal situation: I'd get to know my future colleagues, get up to speed on policy, and have a chance to check out the town. Now, I've stayed in plenty of hotels, but never reserved a room for myself before. I wasn't quite sure what to look for. But I can tell you this now -- going for the cheapest online rate does not necessarily land you a suite at the Plaza. I arrived in Terre Haute after dark. (There is a lot of neon in that town.) I made it to the Days Inn, a stone's throw from the major highway and composed of two squat yellow buildings that reminded me of some government dormitories I'd seen in a documentary about North Korea.

I'd called earlier in the day to make a reservation but had a hell of a time finding the front office. I did, however, stumble onto the fitness center, which was not so much a fitness center as it was a room with a weight bench and a length of dirty rope that, I assumed, served some athletic function (or maybe it was just there to make sure that nobody stole the weight bench). I finally found the front office. The desk clerk ran my credit card with one hand while holding his place in an issue of American Handgunner (this month's special article: "How to make your own home-made hollow points") with the other. I got my keycard and tromped over to my room.

Have you ever seen that movie, Tape, with Ethan Hawke and Robert Sean Leonard? Three old high school friends reunite in a Lansing, MI hotel room -- Uma Thurman's in it, too, looking paradoxically wan and uptight at the same time -- and it's just the three of them going in and out of the room, engaging in a series of cyclical arguments. My hotel room at the Days Inn was a dead ringer for the movie location, from the mismatched carpet and bedspread to the emphysematous radiator in the corner. I went to plug in my phone and the faceplate for the electrical outlet fell off. But, hey, the place had free WiFi and a reasonable number of cable channels, so I settled in as best I could.

I was not prepared for the feelings of loneliness and isolation that came with staying on my own, so far away from home. Contact through Facebook and the Internet is only so much; when you power everything down, it's just you, the dark and the sighing radiator. I don't think I slept more than four hours that night. I went to bed exhausted, but I couldn't get myself to relax. I could feel my heart thudding through my chest and into the mattress. I heard the people in the room next to me drawing a bath; I heard the rumble of trucks out on the interstate. I felt very alone. I started to question whether or not I had made the right decision in coming down here. I had jumped into everything so fast, so completely, that I hadn't really had time to rationalize what I was doing. What if I hated it? What if I couldn't find my way around town? What if my co-workers didn't like me? Where was I going to live? What if I had been fooling myself, thinking I was good enough to be a teacher? What did I really know about language?

I finally knocked out at around two in the morning. When I woke up, the anxieties were still there, but I was also excited about what was to come. I knew that I had come this far and, realistically, if I got in there and didn't like it, I could always politely decline the offer and come home. Of course, I didn't decline. I accepted. I took a leap. And I'm not saying that it's going to be easy, or always fun, or even remotely perfect -- but I'm proud of myself for doing it. If you never try, you never know what you're capable of, or where you're meant to be. I believe I'm on my way.

And at least I know I don't have to spend another night in a Days Inn to get there.