In January I headed west from New York to Los Angeles to work in the writers room of a television show. I’d be in LA for five months. My plan upon arrival was to spend a week at the Sunset Tower Hotel while I searched for a short-term rental. Due to a combination of external and internal factors—the nuttiness of the post-fires housing market and my own long-standing persnicketiness—it ended up being six weeks before I found a price-gouged bungalow in the Hills I was willing to overpay for.

I dreaded the end of my time in the Tower. I knew I’d have to give it up eventually: the $10 small pot of (delicious, worth every penny) room service coffee, the turndown service, the dazzling rapport I’d developed with the valet. (“Hey, how’s it going?” “Good, you?” “Good.”) But perhaps there was a w

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