My Worst Hotel Rooms
Travel Blog • Alexander Basek • 05.11.09 | 10:59 AM ET
Lists are in the air lately, so I decided to get in on the action. Herewith, my four worst hotel rooms, lifetime. I won’t name names, because I’m a gentleman. And also, because the parties in question might hunt me down and throw tiny bottles of shampoo at me.
Singapore: I was at the edge of Singapore’s Chinatown, which, as it turns out, is also the edge of Singapore’s red light district. Not that I caught on—I thought all the scantily-clad women peering out from cracked front doors were zealous about saving the environment and keeping that AC indoors. My hotel room here was easily the darkest I’ve ever stayed in: a deep red and purple color scheme lit by one dirty window overlooking an airshaft. The only outlet was in the middle of the wall above the bed.
Amsterdam: After much researching, I found a boutique hotel on the Prinsengracht in a townhouse overlooking a canal. Beautiful from the outside, but tiny. And ugly. I really could touch both sides of the room at the same time if I extended my arms.
Miami: At a wannabe hipster hotel on Collins, I got upgraded to the Penthouse Suite. Huzzah, right? Not so much. Everything I touched broke. The whole room looked fantastic, but was made of particleboard—the IKEA school of hotel decor. Sure, it felt like I had super-strength for awhile, but then I busted the stereo by turning it on, and the closet just by opening it. Not fun.
Connecticut: This one is not really the hotel’s fault. After a massive meal and lots of red wine, I collapsed into bed, only to be woken by my girlfriend around 1:00 a.m. “Alex,” she whispered, “I don’t know how to tell you this…but there is a giant rat on our nightstand.” Half-asleep, I believed her. I slowly crept out of the bed to the light-switch, turned it on and whipped around. Nothing. My girlfriend, meanwhile darted across the room and hid behind a desk chair, shouting directions. “Check under the bed! Look in the bathroom!” After ten minutes of searching, I suggested that maybe, just maybe, it had all been in our heads.
Still, I’ll take invisible rats over a dark room with no outlets any day of the week.