Hotel Arrivals
By chance I watched Tommy Tiernan, the Irish Chat Show Host, as he interviewed a fellow stand-up comedian Kyla Cobbler. The exchange motivated me to write of my experiences when leaving home and staying away at various places like a holiday camp, French camp sites, hotels but oddly never a B&B.
I had just been on the receiving end of a bad experience staying at one of those branded national budget hotels when visiting our eldest daughter in the UK. I thought it must be the most unpleasant experience until Kyla gave her account.
There is underneath the main entertainment formats a flourishing circuit of professional stand-up comedians operating in the UK and Europe. They reflect the circuit that many American comedians started their careers, amongst whom was Jerry Seinfeld. They travel alone across a continent staying at the most economic hotels pursuing, despite their profession, a lonely existence. Those like me who worked in large businesses and travelled extensively recognise the syndrome. Highly active in your work but then back to a hotel, eating alone, preparing your work and reports for the next day looking forward to the weekend when you can see your family again.
While in Germany she had booked into one of those self-booking-in hotels which just comprise a clean bed to sleep and a place to freshen up for the next day. As she entered the room she could smell ham sandwiches, but an off odour. She looked everywhere in the cupboards, fridge and under the bed. She thought it might eventually disappear and went that evening to the club at which she was performing.
Returning late she met up with a Ukrainian fellow guest who asked her whether she had a funny smell in her room. He was on the fourth floor and she on the third. They both compared the smell in each of their rooms. His room was worse. They deduced it must be coming from upstairs. So, they went to the fifth floor and as the lift doors opened a swarm of flies appeared. The Ukrainian recognised the problem immediately, there was a dead body in one of the rooms.
The Police arrived and advised her she must not leave the country until they had completed their enquiries. She told them that although she was not a detective, the body had been dead for several days and she could prove she had only arrived that day. She claimed a return from the hotel group but no joy.
My experience was nowhere near as bad as that but my latest was the worst after decades staying away in various establishments. My wife and I had arrived after docking at the ferry port at Portsmouth and facing the challenge of navigating around the M25. On arrival at the hotel the receptionist was bent over his I-phone fiddling with the SMS mode. No recognition from him for several minutes until a passing guest shouted out,
“Is it fixed yet?”
The answer was, “No.”
The interruption did provide an opportunity for him to at least presumptively ask for our name. He produced a booking-in form. Using one of the dozen biros on the desk, none of them worked. It was solved by placing a paper underneath to give the pen purchase.
The form repeated all the stuff that was on the advanced reservation including our car registration number. Then the request came to walk over to the entrance door and take a photo of the Q code displayed on a pedestal.
“What’s that for,” I asked?
“To show you are registered to park your car here.”
Tired and not in the mood for a confrontation I complied.
Then came the remark, “You haven’t paid yet.”
In a loud voice everyone could hear and construe I was legging it!
“I have only just arrived,” I said.
“You need to pay first before I can give you your key.”
Fortunately, we had had dinner on the ferry before disembarking so made for the lift.
The voice then came from behind, “The lights don’t work.”
Entering the lift with our luggage the doors closed, and we were in pitch black darkness.
We thought it could only get better from here on but no. Booking in at breakfast our names were not on the list. As it was out of season there were places available and that administrative error soon rectified. The staff were very good but the management hopeless.
We were booked in another of their hotels in the Midlands and thought the experience an aberration but on having dinner with an aviation friend discovered over the evening meal we could not order a dessert after 8.30pm.
That’s it, I have had enough, I won’t be staying with them in the future.
It compelled me to think of other experiences that were out of the ordinary. I assume most people book their accommodation and 95% of the time it goes to expectations, but many of mine were somewhat bizarre.
In my childhood the family stayed in one of those holiday camps. Walking with my brother he insisted on securing autographs for as many of the stars in the cabaret as possible, until one day he had to make an emergency toilet visit. He took ill so I told him to stay where he was, and I would fetch our parents. The problem was I forgot which block he was in but remembered the colour was blue. After a half hour search we found him becoming increasingly distressed at our laxity in returning.
On one visit to a French campsite, this time with my own family, we arrived very late to find a note pinned to a notice board at the reception informing us where our tent was. In the darkness we slowly drove the car on its sidelights to the tent, unloaded all our stuff and spent an hour pumping up the air mattresses. The next morning, we were told we were in the wrong tent and needed to move to the one next door which happened to be larger. It didn’t end there.
Our daughter badly cut her knee, and we had to go to the hospital with our tour guide to have stitches inserted. We filed into the hospital doctor, our guide had his arm in plaster having fallen off his scooter the week before, my daughter following with a bloody bandaged knee, my heavily pregnant wife suffering from a mosquito bite that closed one eye from the swelling and myself strutting along in the rear. The doctor confirmed it was the second in the queue that needed his urgent attention. As we watched the stitches being done the tour guide passed out, apparently he had a phobia against needles. The doctor then turning to my wife gestured whether I had punched her in the eye as I struggled to find the French word for mosquito not knowing it is similar in French.
When our daughter had grown up we had to stay overnight in Newcastle after moving her into her digs rather than travel the long way back late at night. In the middle of the night my wife woke me up and said there was someone knocking on our door. I went to the door, silently opened it with my foot against it in case someone tried to barge in. I then saw it wasn’t our door but opposite and all I saw was a rather attractive blond lady with her back to me tapping away absolutely starkers! I quietly closed the door and relocked it when my wife asked what was it.
“I will tell you in the morning as you won’t believe me now.”
Sometimes the experiences were somewhat more threatening. I worked in Northern Ireland and the company used a company hotel for us all. No booking in problems there. If you were late back from your work you had a secret code to enter via the bullet-proof, armour-plated, glass revolving door. You could help yourself to drinks just noting for the hotel what you and others had consumed. Then one night in the darkness two figures we could see arrived at the door demanding to be let in. Given the situation during the Troubles, we declined and told them to find somewhere else. Two weeks later the place was blown up by the IRA.
This was not to be the only tasty experience. I had travelled to Croatia on my motorbike to take a few days break after leaving my last job as a CEO. On the way to my hotel in Klagenfurt on the Austrian/Crotian border I was stopped by the Croatian Army and told I could not go any further. In a moment of pure madness, I got the sentry to believe I was turning around when I shot through the half barrier posts before he could do anything about it. Unlike in the film the Great Escape, I made it.
Not all arrivals were so extreme, I flew around Europe with my aviation pals, and we had somewhat more amusing episodes. We flew with a new pilot learning the ropes to stay over in Le Touquet. When visiting we used the same old-fashioned hotel and knew the drill. The owner, a Benny Hill lookalike, was very proud of his new electronic bedroom locks that he had a cut-out model available under his desk for newcomers. When our newcomer arrived, he showed him how it works opening the model door to prove the right and wrong way. He then asked whether he knew the secret code. He emphasised that this was very important as the entrance door was closed at 10.00pm and you needed it to get in. He then recounted how his hotel had been used by ITV for a War Drama requiring actors drawn from the UK, France and Germany. He then told my friend he told them the secret code but not the Germans they had to sleep on the beach. All said with a mischievous Benny Hill smile.
Another time we had flown into Basle and timed it when there was an international banking conference and most of the hotels were fully booked. As I was the only one who could speak simple German I rang around on my mobile phone to find rooms. I did find two rooms both with double beds. Entering the hotel it was like a scene from Fawlty Towers. The reception was not a desk but a lectern where the proprietor would be at least a foot above you registering you in. It tuned out he was hilarious. When we asked directions to a restaurant he went through the complicated routing. As pilots we got it first time but according to him the Americans were terrible understanding it. He told how he repeated the instruction three times before putting two fingers to the side of his head and pretending to shoot himself!
The one arrival I really took pleasure from was a visit to the National Hotel in Lucerne. My wife and I arrived one late sunny afternoon. We road onto the gravel area by the lake and thought we would take a view of the lake before checking for a room. Two commissionaires came walking across the gravel saying as we dismounted,
“I am sorry sir, but you can’t park here the public car park is down the road.”
“Even if you are guests,” I replied.
Then the attitude changed to one of, “Can we help you with your luggage.”
“That’s not necessary it is locked onto the bike, and we just want to take in the view first.”
We strode into the reception and asked if they had a spare room ideally with a view of the lake. Similar tone when the receptionist gave the price of the standard rooms as though people like us couldn’t afford it. I thought I would now have my turn.
“Are they the best you can offer?”
“Well, we do have a royal suite on the top floor.”
“That will do nicely,” was my response.
The room was superb and the view of the lake and in the distance the snow-capped mountains breathtaking. On the side table a visitors’ book containing the names of royalty, presidents, famous Hollywood actors and now my wife and me.
Changing the bedroom phone rang. It was the manager asking if our room was acceptable. I told him it was magnificent and next time I would time our visit on our wedding anniversary.
“I have good news for you, we will charge the standard rate for the room and there will be no charge for parking the motorbike in the private car park.”
I thanked him profusely for his kind generosity.
Yes I thought you are now so embarrassed by your offhand manner making assumptions about people simply because of their mode of transport. A result!
