For most Collegetown residents, the Hillside Inn has faded into the landscape. Squat and grey, it is unremarkable and too similar to its neighbors. The unhurried passerby might notice the faded signpost, a superhero “H” painted in white and glimpse into porch-cum-reception lobby. At night, the fluorescent lights make the converted porch glow like an aquarium and its patient receptionist look like a mollusk. However, its plainness is only apparent — it is one of the most distinctive establishments in our snowy, academic territory.

The first time I heard of someone staying at the Hillside Inn was when a trouble-making friend was forced out of his house and had to stay there for the remaining months of his senior year. Despite the hassle of moving, he said he had been quite comfortable. Living in hidden Collegetown streets, I barely knew the place, but this already told me there was something special. When I moved to a comfortable apartment on Stewart Avenue and walked by it each day back and forth from campus, then my interest augmented.

The people entering and exiting the Hillside Inn were the only adults (no, college students are not adults) for a few blocks around. They had an old-school cordiality about them, as they looked at me in the eye with a sunny “good morning” each day before class. They were the friendliest neighbors I had. Of course its shabbiness was absolutely charming.

Ooooh, I badly wanted to go to this place.

Evidently, David could tell and made it a perfect Valentine’s Day surprise. With several rooms available, he asked a cloudy-eyed and tousle-haired receptionist for a view, but it was quickly explained that they all had the same one — of the parking lot and the cemetery. The receptionist, heartened by the Valentine’s glisten in our eyes, recommended a room with a charming story. We could not, however, make any sense of it — it involved some visiting architect and his obsessive particularity for the ceiling. We took the room anyway.

While waiting for things to be written up, we chatted with another bored, friendly staffer about the day’s snowstorm. He insisted the U.S. government was responsible for global warming because NASA was blowing swiss-cheese holes into the atmosphere — not sissy aerosols! Rocket ships! Gaping 10-mile wide holes! He saw it on the Discovery Channel! It made a hell of a lot of sense to us. This little motel is full of great people.

The cloudy-eyed guy led us up the creaky stairs and through narrow maze-like halls to our room, which he opened with a flourish. No matter the establishment, there is a peculiar thrill when your eyes fall upon your new room. The bed was visibly sunken from where we were standing, with a hideous nylon floral coverlet. The carpet was a mottled grey, and the walls were paneled with fake wood. The coat hangers were mismatched, and the alarm clock had hands. But! It did not matter! A hotel room is a hotel room and going to one without your parents footing the bill is certainly exciting.

In its quaint romance, there was definitely something of our man Nabokov at the old Hillside (though I have no idea if he ever stayed there). So little had changed in fifty years, you could really, truly expect the writer to have checked out the day before. A famous butterfly scholar, the writer traveled across America frequently for his collections, and motels consequently became a steadfast part of his intellectual landscape. Read Lolita. The older man and his brat spend years in and out of them as they traverse the country. Though they may have been doing “filthy things in filthy places,” the Hillside Inn is not so filthy and has its utilitarian magic, the one perfect for the tried and tired American traveler. Admittedly, Lolita doesn’t offer the sort of romance expected on Valentine’s Day, but it’s exactly the romance, the getaway sought for by the English geek and Ithaca lover.

David and I slept in a little the next morning, because our first classes had been canceled due to the snowstorm. A little stiff-necked and no longer wearing our “fancy-date” clothes from the night before, we went downstairs to check out and eat our much-anticipated free “continental breakfast,” which turned out to be some donut holes and instant coffee. A different baseball-capped, middle-aged guy was at the desk and asked us, “You kids go to Cornell?” to which we affirmed. “How’s it up there? Passing your classes?” which we also affirmed. “You guys are doing great, huh?!” followed by a warm chuckle. It floored us. While fighting tooth-and-nail for stellar GPAs and influence in this Red Ivy, it never feels like it is good enough. But hey! We were doing great. We went to Cornell! In this strange, shabby, wistful little badger-hole in Collegetown, in our very own neighborhood, David and I got an utterly refreshing perspective — the high golden trophy for good travel. A few minutes later, we walked to class and passed by the ancient mossy stone indicating campus boundaries: “Cornell University — Not a Public Thoroughfare.” Indeed, Cornell does cast a long shadow over the surrounding territory with its very mobile, skittish student population, but there are hidden stops to rest your motors for a sweet getaway, and there will be no place more welcoming than the Hillside Inn.

Erin Geld is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at esg24@cornell.edu. The Sampling appears alternate Wednesdays.