In Leshan, don't miss the Orange Leshan Railway Station Shihao Plaza Hotel for a unique experience

## My Stay at Orange Leshan Railway Station Shihao Plaza Hotel: An Illusion of "Convenience" I've always harbored a morbid fascination with the naming artistry of chain hotels. When "Orange" and "Leshan Railway Station Shihao Plaza" forcibly copulate in a hotel name, it was destined to be a linguistic car crash. The former attempts to convey youthful brand energy, while the latter eagerly lists geographical coordinates and commercial symbols. This schizophrenic naming perfectly foreshadowed my stay here—a standardized sugar coating wrapped around the absurdity of modern business travel. The lobby was saturated with an artificially synthesized citrus fragrance, so intense it seemed to mask some unspeakable secret. The front desk clerk's smile was like a standardized part freshly unpacked from an assembly line, her greeting maintaining an unsettling consistency with what I'd heard at seventeen other Orange Hotels. During check-in, I noticed a barely perceptible chip in her nail polish on her right ring finger—the only flaw in this standardized process, yet it inexplicably comforted me. Robots don't chip, but humans do. The mirrored elevator created an illusion of infinite replication as I ascended to the 17th floor under the gaze of countless versions of myself. The corridor carpet pattern felt like a visual experiment in psychological contamination, its geometric shapes inducing mild vertigo under the energy-saving lights. Upon opening the door, I was assaulted by a violent display of "design sensibility"—a digitally generated abstract painting on the wall, a grotesquely shaped bedside lamp, and a semi-transparent glass partition in the bathroom. All these elements screamed in unison: "Look! We're young! We're trendy!" The bedding emitted a sterile, industrially laundered scent, and the pillows achieved a despairingly mediocre softness. Lying down, I discovered the bedside power outlet was precisely positioned—just close enough for the charging cable to strangle your neck without actually causing suffocation. Perhaps unintentional, this became the room's most philosophical design: even in sleep, modern humans maintain their umbilical connection to electronic devices. The soundproofing was performance art. At 3 AM, the neighbor's snoring transmitted through the walls as rhythmic low-frequency vibrations; suitcase wheels in the hallway groaned like deep-sea monsters; and mysterious pipes emitted intestinal gurgles every twenty-seven minutes. These nocturnal sounds composed a postmodern symphony, conducted by our era's greatest composer—cost control. Breakfast on the ninth floor unfolded in a space brimming with existential crisis. Food was arranged like supermarket shelves, each stainless steel tray holding tiny portions of despair. The scrambled eggs tasted like a poor imitation of eggs, the bacon glowed suspiciously pink under the lights, and even the orange juice was heartbreakingly honest—its carton boldly stating "30% juice content." Sitting by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching ant-like crowds in the railway station square, I suddenly realized I too was just a replaceable part in some standardized process. A small miracle occurred at checkout. When I complained about nighttime noise, the clerk's programmed smile faltered as she whispered, "Actually, you could request a room facing away from the elevator—those are better." This trivial advice felt like a sudden beam of humanity piercing the standardized cage. Exiting through the revolving door, I glanced back to see her perfect professional smile restored, as if our brief conspiracy never happened. In Leshan's morning mist, the hotel's orange logo remained vibrantly visible. I suddenly understood: such hotels are modern humanity's temporary caves. We knowingly embrace their falseness and calculation because, in this rapidly moving world, even artificial warmth is a form of warmth. Orange Hotels won't give you a sense of home—they'll sell you the illusion of "convenience," which happens to be our era's most expensive luxury.