Stepping into the lobby felt like entering a time capsule – and not the charming, nostalgic kind. Think more along the lines of a forgotten attic from 1985. The absence of an elevator, a detail conveniently omitted during booking, turned the trek to my upper-floor room into an unexpected and unwelcome cardio session.
The room itself? A masterclass in neglect. The air hung heavy with a musty, stale odor that stubbornly clung to everything. My eyes were then assaulted by decor that screamed "last renovation during the Reagan administration." Peeling wallpaper, threadbare carpets, and furniture that had clearly witnessed decades of questionable use completed the depressing tableau.
And the bed! Oh, the bed. Describing it as "uncomfortable" is a gross understatement. It felt like sleeping on a collection of strategically placed rocks covered by a thin, lumpy excuse for a mattress. The warning not to use the blanket, offered by a staff member with a weary sigh, spoke volumes. I heeded their advice, but the chill in the room did little to improve my "rest."
The towels provided felt like sandpaper, relics from a bygone era that had long since lost any semblance of softness. Their faded appearance suggested they were on their last, very rough, legs. Even the designation of my room as "non-smoking" proved to be a cruel joke, as the lingering scent of stale cigarettes permeated the air , need I go on?