Sometimes in life we all have to make sacrifices, and the first time I really learned this lesson is when I stayed three nights in the downtown Denver YMCA. We’ve all heard that song, but most people have no earthly idea what it even means, throwing their arms up in the air to spell out the letters during the halftime entertainment at Friday night’s basketball or football game. I was not wealthy, by any stretch of the imagination and lived in a starter home in the suburbs of Raleigh, but most of my coworkers raked in six figures, drove whatever car they wanted, and could afford to send their kids to private universities like Duke or Wake Forest. I did my best to fit in. So on these company-paid business trips I usually ate in nice restaurants and actually bought my lunch rather than packing a can of tuna and a banana. IBMers also stayed for free in really nice hotels, not just the travel lodges I grew up with. Holiday Inn, or the Marriott, or a Sheraton were usually our picks. After all, we were “big wigs,” right? It’s an unusual set of circumstances, then, that I wound up staying in a $12 a night single-room YMCA with no TV, a cold tile shower, and jack hammers waking me up every morning. How I ended up staying at the YMCA is an interesting set of circumstances. Let’s just say I owe it all to my coworker Dave.

When I got off the plane in Denver, a shuttle van was waiting right outside. Ten dollars was sure cheaper than a regular cab, so I didn’t mind the wait. A few puffy clouds hung in the clear, blue sky and a refreshing chill in the air told me I was in Denver. I got on the van and when it was more full, off we went. The driver dropped the rest of the passengers off and that just left me alone on the van, already 8:15 and getting colder on this December Denver evening. He asked me the address of my hotel again and he muttered a brief “Hmmph” and drove down the road. We kept going and seemed to get further and further from town. We drove for miles until we reached the right exit, and when we got to this particular Holiday Inn I looked out the window and could not even see the downtown skyline.

I got out of the shuttle van and went in to confirm my reservation and asked the dreaded question, “How long will it take me to get downtown in the morning?”

“At least an hour, with the rush hour traffic,” was the hotel clerk’s quick answer. He also told me that the cab fair would probably be $50 a day. I couldn’t stomach the thought.

What was I going to do? Dave had told me his booking information and I had merely written them down and booked the same hotel so we could share the rental car (I hate to drive in a new city). With just my luck, Dave ended up not going on the trip, which left me alone, all the way across the city in a new town going to this education conference.

Now I had a dilemma, spend two hours each day of this three-day trip just to commute, or try to find someplace else. When I got to my room, I immediately pulled out the five-pound phone book and turned to the yellow pages and looked under hotels. I futilely called a few in vain. Every one had been booked solid for months with several conferences and thousands of businessmen in town. I didn’t know what to do.

Looking at that section, I scanned down the list: Best Western, Comfort Inn Suites, Casablanca Hotel,” and then I saw it. Mixed in with the list of fancy $300-a-night hotels were the lowly words, “Downtown Central YMCA,” and the idea hit me. Why not, I thought?

I left a little early the next morning, without even unpacking my suitcase the night before. Fortunately it had wheels. When the cab dropped me off at 25 E 16th Ave, I had no idea where to even enter the large building. The industrial greyish brown brick of the building was flanked in the corner by a simple square sign, “The Y,” in red, white and blue. Its five stories and fake Greek columns made it look almost like a large post office. When I walked up the steps in the middle and through the double doors, I saw a little window straight ahead, like the check-in window of a doctor’s office without all the glass. It reminded me almost of my college dormitory days. I had never done this before, so I was a little nervous. I had already called ahead and knew they had space.

“I’m here to get a room,” I anxiously muttered.

“We are all out of regular rooms. All we’ve got is one with a private bath for twelve dollars,” the man behind the counter responded courteously, looking up from the novel he had been reading.

That was an easy choice. Even if I had the choice, two dollars more to avoid a communal bath was a no-brainer. A second man showed me the way down the long dimly lit tile corridor--definitely like a college residence hall. He opened the door, stepped into the room and handed me the key. I wasn’t surprised when I looked around because I had known what to expect.

Two tall windows filled the wall opposite of the twin-sized bed, filling the room with daylight despite the closed schoolhouse blinds. How was I ever going to get to sleep? The bed linens were kempt and looked clean enough for me to not worry too much; they looked comfie almost, nothing fancy, just plain white. A nightstand hugged one side of the bed in the corner, and one small dresser stood against the fourth wall. The bathroom had one small sink and a standard porcelain toilet, and the shower stall was paved with small, one-inch tiles. A shower head jutted from the wall--not that inviting, but functional. I took one more look around the room and decided that it was all I really needed.

My first day of the conference was like stepping into another universe, from common man to businessman. After getting my day planner from my carry-on, I heaved my laptop onto my shoulder and out the door I went. Walking down the steps out into the crisp morning air was exhilarating and made me feel alive. The three-block walk to the conference center was refreshing and poignant, as I witnessed the early-morning bustle of a real city coming to life, the traffic, other people on foot, and even a vagrant jingling change in the bottom of a tattered paper cup. The Marriot Inn and Conference Center rose up in the distance, with modern sleek tinted windows and the scurry of taxis buzzing around the entrance.

As I walked inside, none of the IT professionals in ties and suits noticed me invading their leisurely business world like an ill-fitting imposter. Some couches to my right were occupied by a few conference goers finishing up the last bites of their bagels or sipping a cafe mocha from the hotel restaurant or Starbucks. When I saw someone busily tapping away on a laptop keyboard I realized that the conference center’s free wifi would be my only chance to stay caught up on email. Throughout the day, I became one of them, an IBMer learning about the latest advances in educational technology and student-centered pedagogical theories. By the end of the day, I exited my last session--from a room cloaked in rich carpeting, track lighting, and European wooden tables--out the front of the hotel into the late afternoon sun, crisp air, and the common folk on the streets hurrying home to their family dinners.

Each day, the same routine, I walked in to the conference and back “home” to the YMCA. One night I even treated myself to take-out Chinese food. The IBM meal budget of $25 goes a long way when you’re eating alone: appetizers, hot and sour soup, two entrees, and even some crab rangoon--a virtual feast, like a buffet for just me. I had the fleeting thought of my travelling colleagues eating out at fancy steakhouses or even trendy neo-Asian sushi joints where a single bite might cost more than my entire spring roll. With no TV, in quiet solitude I opened the Rolling Stone magazine I bought at the hotel newstand and enjoyed it until I got sleepy enough for bed.

I was too cheap to spend $12 on an alarm clock at the corner drugstore, so I was going to trust the sun to wake me up. Needless to say, I found the jack hammer outside my window at 7 am, more than enough to wake me up. Even with that troubling start, this next day brought the highlight of my entire trip. It wasn’t the Chinese meal, or any of the sessions I attended. It wasn’t even the airplane flight, which I’m always a little nervous about. It all happened on 9th Avenue along my four-block route to the conference center. I saw something I had really only seen in movies and TV shows, a real live shoe shine man with the most innovative travelling setup. On my way in that morning, I passed and noticed a few people actually standing in line and only thought, “That would be a neat thing to try.” I had never paid for a shoe shine before, of course. But I had no time, hustling into my first session at 8:30 am, but in the back of my mind I anxiously awaited my lunch break to rush back to the shoe shine man. When I got there, I watched while he finished up with another customer.

“Can I interest you in a shoe shine today?” the small, kind man asked. He kneeled beside his throne-like wooden stand and with an outstretched hand, invited me to have a seat. I was thinking that the stand must have weighed 50 solid pounds, and then I noticed that he had designed it cleverly with wheels. No doubt it had built-in storage, and I even noticed a retractable handle. During this 12 minutes of time (worth every penny of the $5 I shelled out), I learned and marvelled at this man’s life story in a nutshell. Down on his luck fifteen years ago, this man found a business venture that would always be in need. Humble enough to bow down before countless businessmen every weekday for years, he obviously took pride in his work. And boy, how he made my shoes shine.

His shoe shine was more than just that, it actually began with what I would call a foot massage, only with my shoes on. A shoe at a time, he took leather lotion and worked it into all parts of the first shoe, then the other. It may have relaxed the leather, but it did the same to my body. From this single paid shoe shine experience, I took it all in as best practice for years of shining my own shoes (as the common man does), from the Cavalier-brand polish in a jar, not a can, to the way he used his brushes and polishing rags. He even explained his technique as he went. I learned about shining shoes, and about this man, and through this experience, I even learned about myself.

I walked back to the conference today with my shoes as shiny as they’ve ever been, and a newfound sense of priorities. What is really important? Fancy meals and hotel rooms, or really finding something that you love to do, and doing it to the best of your ability? Staying in the YMCA, I treated myself to a shoe shine and in the end that stark juxtaposition was the perfect combination. A stark naked lightbulb over my bed, a modest bed, and four bare walls was all I needed for shelter. Chinese food is still my favorite travel food. Who needs cable TV and free wall-to-wall wifi and good morning wake up calls? I found my priorities clearly articulated by a humble shoe shine man who had been making a living for years rubbing other people’s feet, but doing it with a smile. I’ll always remember that trip, because like they say, “It’s fun to stay in the YMCA.” And unlike most people, I know what that really means.