Last night I stayed in a hotel room so small Houdini would’ve taken one look and turned his back. When I stood in the middle of the room I could make contact with two walls, read a tiny sign on the third and have a close acquaintance with the fourth. Very close.
If I believed in signs, I’d have foreseen trouble: we walked right past the hotel. I was looking for The Grosvenor and had a glorious art deco image in my mind. It was only when we doubled back that we discovered The Mercure Grosvenor, a sleeker, tarted-up Grosvenor.
This didn’t necessarily seem a bad thing. Mercure hotels have a slick rep and I was happy to swap nostalgic 30s for cutting edge glam. The Mercure, it turns out, was trying to do the same, but the effort was a bit like your grandma with swapping brooches for body piercing.
Our room was on the fourth floor and as far from humanity as possible. The walk from the elevator was a monumental 3 passageways and a staircase. The further back we got into the nether regions of the hotel, the more the illusion slipped. Carpet gave way to vinyl, soft lighting gave way to fluros and hotel gave way to hospital. The room doors became suspiciously close together.
Our room, number 475, was right next to 476. Not unexpected, of course, but ‘right next to’ in this instance meant sharing a door jam and, over the course of an evening, sharing intimate details in the life of an unseen neighbour. More about him later.
It took longer to get to the room than explore the room. Double bed, one bedside table, luggage rack and a cupboard containing everything else, including the television (which had a completely unnecessary remote.) A caravan-sized door led to a caravan sized bathroom. Location location, location: toilet, basin and shower conveniently located in easy distance of each other. I’d estimate thirty centimetres. I could sit on the toilet and play cards with someone in the bed, neither of us needing to stretch to have our turn.
Just as the bedroom had no room, the bathroom had no bath. And here the entire place both contradicts and excels itself. A brochure gave tips for an environmentally friendly stay, suggesting 4 minute showers. A good idea, except that the amount of water coming out of the 70s showerhead could save the Lower Lakes. In 4 minutes. And the pressure! It shot out with epidermis-removing force.
My neighbour enjoyed his bathroom too, if his frequent usage is any indication. The separating wall was waterproof but not soundproof. I’d never want to eat at the restaurant he patroned, and for him it was fortunate the toilet and basin were so proximate. He also misinterpreted the environment tips and showered at 4am for 40 minutes. It’s not big business ruining the planet; it’s the illiterate.
With only motel milk and coffee sachets provided, we considered ordering room service, but the fine print detailed a $3 surcharge. I’m confused. I’m already paying for the room and the food, but they’ll charge $3 to deliver it. I could order pizza from the outer suburbs, an entire list from an online grocer and a book from the UK and they’d all deliver for less than The Mercure.
I was tempted to compensate my disappointing experience with a spot of petty theft: a coffee cup here, a hand towel there. But tiny little room 475 perfectly guards itself against crimes of this sort; anything lifted, however small, would immediately leave an extremely obvious gap. Housekeeping would tell with one glance that the kettle cord was missing.
After making the long hike to reception to check out, nobody commented on our hot and puffed appearance. I’d say they’re used to it: a room such as ours leant itself very well to an hourly rate. No wonder it was so far away.
No comments:
Post a Comment