Professional Traveller

I wake up. It is Shangri-La
Not that mystical place of my dreams
but a well run hotel. Carefully
maintained beauty, flawless service.
I'm connected, my social graph is with me,
posts, tweets and sweaks try to lull me
into the illusion of closeness.
Another day, professional excellence is expected.
The keyboard has a precise pressure point,
but I'm longing for a human touch.
I loath to join the club of lonely hearts
convening at the hotel bar every night.
Memories tell me travel was exiting, ready like
a minute man heading to the airport.
Gone. The call of duty remains. I watch
in the cafes happy chatter
in languages I don't understand.
I'm the professional Traveller,
ready to go where I'm needed,
all by myself.
Loneliness my faithful companion.
What city is this?