It was pouring rain outside. Inside, the glass ceiling above the skywalk in the Garden Conservatory, which led from the Delta wing to the Cascades Lobby, was leaking. A small gray bucket was positioned under the leak. It was now almost full. One drop would land in the bucket with a small splash and a loud plonk. The next drop would miss the bucket entirely, landing on the flagstone path.

Last year, I went on a four day work trip to Nashville, Tennessee. Our entire remote-first company was meeting for a summit to align our shared vision and foster enthusiasm and fight fraud and so forth. We stayed at the Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center. According to the Marriott website, "Situated in the heart of Nashville, Gaylord Opryland Resort & Convention Center welcomes guests to a stunning resort experience... Guests at our Opryland hotel suites can explore nine acres of airy indoor garden atriums... [T]he resort features more than 750,000 sq ft of flexible meeting space and 2,888 guest rooms..."

I repeat, nine acres of indoor gardens! 2,888 rooms!

Outside the Cascades lobby from morning to night there is a constant carousel of Uber drivers. The resort is only accessible via highway. Gaylord operates a shuttle service to and from the airport, but it costs $30 each way. Everyone Ubers. Weary, jet-lagged convention goers, legs still stiff and cramped from the economy class seat their company refused to upgrade, stumble out of their Ubers and, carry-ons in tow, stumble through the revolving doors into the disorienting vastness of the lobby. There are 36 reception desks.

After the lobby, guests enter the first of untold many indoor garden atria. What struck me first about the nine acres of hubris was not the awesome crash of the elegantly constructed waterfall, nor the lush tropical greenery, nor the pleasant winding paths and streams throughout, nor the late afternoon sunshine filtering through the staggeringly tall glass ceiling, but the smell. It smelled of mold and sulphur. The crisp chill of the Tennessee winter air, which I had only so briefly felt between the Uber and the front door, was gone. It was sticky inside. I wanted a shower.

The coveted rooms, available at check-in for an additional cost, faced an atrium. My room faced outside, towards the little ball of hope we call Earth. All I could see was the resort parking lot.

Besides the smell, there was something else uncanny about the atria. I couldn't put my finger on it until maybe the second or third day, but when it hit me, I couldn't stop thinking about it. They were dead. The trees and bushes were green and leafy, sure, but they were lifeless. There were no ants or gnats or flies or beetles or bees or spiders or birds or little squirrels scampering through the undergrowth. Nothing stirred in the suffocating air. There was more life in the tiny strip of a park opposite my apartment. Hell, there was more life back in my bedroom. My pothos had had a mite infestation. I wondered what percentage of the liquid flowing down the waterfall was pesticides.

Guests were not supposed to leave the Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center. There were sixteen restaurants on site, plus a Cinnabon and an Auntie Anne's. What more could one need?

I asked one of the twelve concierges for recommendations on where to run. We were near the river and I hoped there might be a path along it (the real river, not the pesticide one). The concierge was surprised by my request, but nonetheless produced for me the official Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center Outdoor Walking Path Map. It demarcated a 1.4 mile loop around the building through the parking lot. I did it twice, screaming inside the whole while.

At the opening night cocktail party, I quickly found a few other coworkers who also felt trapped and disturbed. We downed our first round, slipped our second drink tickets to more deserving souls, and absconded. We Ubered twenty minutes away to a local dive bar that was lively and welcoming, even on a Monday night. They had a delicious vegan "chicken" sandwich. Incidentally, the coworkers who came with me to the bar were all from Europe. At some point in the discussion about the Gaylord, Jérémie asked me, "Willy, is this what America is like outside of the East Coast? Do Americans really choose to go resorts like this?"

I prefer to think America is more like dive bars with comfy booths and vegan sandwiches.

On the way back, I chatted with our Uber driver. "Oh, it's so beautiful," he said. "The gardens and everything. And the river boat! I go for dinner every year or so." A long time ago, he had taken his date there after senior prom for a romantic stroll beneath the palm fronds. And no, they did not book a room, he answered, laughing. I decided not to ask if he had noticed the smell.

The rain and the leak started on the second day. A week later, my company announced a 15% staff reduction. So it goes.