Our hotel, entitled 'The Continental' is mere seconds
away and the thought of fresh, clean beds awaiting our arrival spurs
us onward.
I step into the lobby, only to be shrouded in thick
smoke. It reminds me of the early morning harbor fog that often
blankets Vancouver, though not so fresh and mysterious. This stuff
is just plain gross. My younger brother, Thomas, follows close behind
and coughs loudly upon entering. I certainly don't blame him; I'm
trying my hardest to calm the tickle in my throat.
"I can't stand this," he gasps dramatically,
before turning on his heel and promptly exiting, baggage and all,
as if the thought of leaving anything in this room is too horrible
a punishment.
I take a moment to glance around the lobby, trying
vainly not to inhale the congesting smoke. The shabby room consists
of two old desks placed haphazardly beside each other, each hosting
a large ashtray atop its rough, scratched counter surface. Two dingy,
upholstered chairs are occupied by Arabic men, each sternly puffing
on cigarettes, whilst a third man, also smoking, sits behind one
of the desks. The only colour in this drab room spills out from
the small rack displaying flamboyant brochures. I make my way through
the smoke, drawn to the colour much like a moth to light.
My dad steps up to the desk and greets the clerk
with a friendly smile.
"Name," the clerk demands, barely even
acknowledging our arrival. I guess a "hello" is too much
to expect.
"Nunn. N-U-N-N," Dad spells out helpfully.
"Yes. Five nights. Here's your key, room 26."
My dad's face sours, as if he had just bitten into
something unpleasant. "No," he states, "we registered
for three nights."
"But it says here, " argues the man, tapping
his notepad with his pencil, "five."
My mum now steps up to the desk, "no. We booked
three nights; we're not even in London for five nights. We're paying
for three." She shoves the Travelers Checks over the desk,
her lips pursed tightly, head shaking, leaving the Arabic clerk
with no choice but to accept the payment.
"Oh," he mutters while handing the receipt
to my dad, "there is a one pound charge per check. That's what
the bank charges us to cash them."
Dad's face now begins to rouge and he's set his
lips to match my mum's: tight as hide stretched over an African
drum.
"A pound each?" he questions, as though
he may not have heard correctly. I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't
in any other circumstance; my Dad did after all stick a part of
a straw into his ear when he was a toddler. And who knows if the
doctor actually removed it all?
Behind the counter the man appears to have shrunk
in his stature and no longer seems so bold.
"Yes...the, the bank...."he stutters while
shuffling papers on his desk, "so, two Checks, makes two pounds."
Wow, he can add. Amazing. What is he thinking? That my dad is not
only deaf but cannot do arithmetic either?
"Two pounds," Dad repeats, plunking the
coins onto the counter in disbelief.
"Yes, thank-you." Now he's gushing. How
professional.
Turning away from the desk, Dad bellows, "Thomas!
Get in here, let's go to our room." And so we're off. Fantastic.
After trudging wearily with our heavy luggage through
the smelly halls and up staircase after staircase, we've finally
reached our room! Dad unlocks the door and it swings open easily
to display an extremely small, crowded area. There are four single
beds lined up with about a foot separating each. They are blanketed
with dull, drab covers that have holes burned right through them
in some areas. There are no bed frames encasing the mattresses,
oh no, the beds consist merely of mattress piled upon mattress.
One of the beds is even held up by a stack of wooden blocks! Looks
like they were desperate.
"Oh my God!" Mum gasps in shock. I turn
and see her standing in the doorway of a small room, her eyes wide
from shock.
"What is it?" I ask while weaving my way
between each of the beds, the rest of my family already gathered
together outside of the doorway, peering in curiously.
"This isn't a bathroom!" Thomas's mouth
hangs open and his eyes are bulging, ogling at the site before him.
He reminds me of a toad, minus the warts, of course, but the resemblance
is certainly there.
"Let me see. Move!" I shove my gaping
toad-brother away and take a look for myself.
The room which lays before me can only be the bathroom,
though that is much to grand a title for the pitiful square room
which most certainly does NOT contain a bath!
A toilet resides in one corner, terribly old and
grungy, rust creeping up the sides like ivy, ever present and tenacious,
not to mention difficult to remove. It looks as if it may spew up
its contents, spit it right back at you, if not flushed in just
the right manner. I'm dreading the use of this 'throne'. The bushes
in the park across the street from the hotel appeal to me much more,
though I'm sure the London Police (or Bobbies, haha!) would not
approve of their use as a toilet, nor would the neighbours.
Beside the toilet is a tiny sink with a basin so
small my two hands are just able to fit under it. No little bar
of scented soap for us- what a rip-off! The cold water tap produces
nothing, not even a drop of liquid. Great, we get to look forward
to brushing our teeth with hot water.
The shower is directly opposite the toilet, about
two small steps from it, and is in no better condition than the
toilet. The head is off kilter (my guess is a frustrated guest took
its anger out on it after realizing that the pathetic dribble of
water is all that comes out. I'm not exactly looking forward to
my shower now either. I've officially decided I hate this place.
And home is ever so far away.
The promised colour-TV is a sorry site; it would
have been brand spanking new at least fifty years ago. The dials
are stubbornly stiff and Thomas is struggling to turn them.
"What a piece of junk!" He exclaims, face
red as a jalapeno pepper from the effort he's had to expel, "it's
from the Stone Age I think."
Thomas finally has the TV turned on but the picture
is horrible. It hops about, up and down like a bouncy ball, the
figures on the screen seemingly in constant motion. The colour is
so bright that it stings my eyes.
"I can't watch this!" I decide after having
strained my eyes for two long minutes. To dive into a book, to escape
from this living hell, appeals much more to me at the moment.
There is a single, hazy lamp attached to the ceiling,
barely illuminating the room, which only adds to the gloomy atmosphere.
I discover a bedside lamp, the only one in the room, and attempt
to switch it on, but I have absolutely no luck. I check the outlet:
yes it's plugged in, yes the switch is working. Perhaps the light
bulb is unscrewed. AHA! No light bulb! I really shouldn't be surprised.
Our first night passes with minor problems. The
room is too hot and muggy, so Mum attempts to open the lone window,
only to discover that it's broken and does not stay up. She recruits
our only small 'rubbage' bin to become a prop for the window.
Thomas nearly falls off his bed a few times during
the night; his top mattress being quite a bit larger than the two
beneath him. He's quite a mover at night, an extremely restless
sleeper, so the poor kid came close to tipping off on more than
one occasion.
Breakfast time and we're all starving! I'm still
unclear as to what exactly the English like to serve for breakfast,
but Mum claims it's bacon or ham with toast and tomatoes fried in
the bacon fat - no thanks! (I am a vegetarian after all). Dad grins
and says, "we are in England, aren't we? Therefore we must
be British and do things the English way!" Thomas is already
trying to blend in by speaking with an overly done, completely fake
British accent- he's so embarrassing.
We've entered the dining area to find it void of
all people, just some small tables and chairs. A young woman comes
through the door just as we've sat down, and slowly makes her way
to our table.
"Coffee or tea." She demands rather than
asks, her expression hard and unfriendly.
"We'll have coffee," Mum says, "but
do you have hot chocolate for the kids by any chance?"
"No." The woman stares coldly at my mum
as if she were crazy to even ask such a thing. Meanwhile, I'm wondering
how on earth one can stand to be so expressionless, so blank, for
such a long time. What a boring person.
"I'll have tea, please." I smile while
ordering, but her face stays stony, reminding me of a rock.
"Yah, me too," Thomas adds.
She turns on her heel and quickly returns with our
drinks in small, metallic pots and chipped mugs.
"This is horrible," Dad whispers after
sampling his coffee, his face screwing up in an unsatisfied way.
"Oh god! It must be instant," Mum shudders
after her unpleasant taste.
My parents are picky coffee drinkers- it has to
be strong, hot, caffinated (certainly none of that decaff stuff)
and most definitely NOT instant!
The clerk from the day before enters the room, promptly
lights a cigarette and sits at a table across from us. He watches
as we sip our disgusting drinks, and I can't help but feel as if
we are animals in a zoo being critically observed.
Next arrives our meal, but it can't be called that
at all, for it merely consists of two small, hard buns accompanied
by a jar of marmalade and a dish of margarine (real butter must
be too expensive).
"I hate marmalade." The jello-ey texture
of it grosses me out and the lumps of fruit or whatever the hell
is used to make marmalade, looks none too appetizing. "I think
I'll pass on that."
"Me too." Thomas scowls at the disgusting
spread.
"Oh Cassidy, try some." I hate it when
Mum does this: guilt's me into trying something I really would rather
not have. She has shoved the foreboding jar in my direction, and
I grudgingly spread some on my stale lump of a bun. After one bite
I know for sure I'm never torturing my taste buds with the horrible,
tangy, jelly substance ever again. My face must reflect my resentment
for Mum sighs, "honestly, Cassidy." Margarine and bread
it is!
We've finished our horrid breakfast and I'm eager
to leave; the clerk in the corner has been gazing at us the entire
time, making it possibly the most uncomfortable (not to mention
revolting) meal I've ever been forced to sit through.
"Can we go to the room now?" Thomas is
dying to leave as well; he's twitching and jiggling around in his
chair. Pain in the ass as usual, but at the moment I don't care,
I just want to escape!
Dad is leaning back in his chair, hands clasped
over his unsatisfied belly, bushy eyebrows raised, "no, no,
that wasn't breakfast. There's more coming."
"Dad, I really don't think so." He's expecting
too much out of this dump. You'd think by now he might not be so
clueless as to the customs of this hotel.
"There's got to be more. That wasn't a breakfast."
"Don, that was it I think." Mum looks
as if she's about to burst out laughing.
"No way."
This is hilarious! He's in denial, I'm sure. "No
Dad. That was breakfast."
His eyes are wide in disbelief. The entire situation
is so comical that I can't help but let a small giggle escape. Mum,
and soon Thomas join in, our hysteria no doubt influenced by our
lack of sleep and food.
"Let's go!" Thomas whines.
"I'm talking to the manager." And with
that, Dad marches out, up the skinny staircase and into the lobby.
Thomas, Mum and I are all too humiliated to watch Dad make a fool
of himself, so we sneak away to our room. Dad reports back in a
few minutes: the manager had argued that our meal had indeed been
a full continental breakfast. Sorry Dad, sounds like we're going
to starve in England.
It's already our second night in this miserable
hole-in-the-wall. We've come to call it Hell's Hovel, which we feel
is a fit description. It truly has been the closest thing to a living
hell that I've ever experienced. I'm eager for sleep; I've felt
so sick all day, undoubtedly caused by the foul breakfast and further
worsened by our traipsing through the crowded, chaotic streets of
London.
No sooner has my head graced the pillow than the
sound of water flowing disturbs my rest.
Drip-drip-drip.
My foggy brain accepts the bother as rainfall-it
must be coming from outside our propped window. Drip-drip-drip-drip.
It's steadily increasing. I'm too tired to even
care.
There's a rustling of bed sheets. Mum going to the
bathroom. The creaking of a mattress signals she's back, but she
leaps up almost immediately and hustles towards my bed.
"Oh my God!" My eyes snap open, yet I'm
still enveloped in darkness. What on earth? I'm beginning to panic,
but I suddenly remember, before becoming too flustered, that I'm
wearing the nightshade from the plane ride. I must look like a complete
fool: hair sticking up in all directions, night shade masking my
eyes and my head frantically turning in all directions, looking
for an escape from the deep black.
I rip off the shade and discover Mum hurriedly throwing
jackets and clothes out of the one cupboard in the room and onto
my bed. There is water pouring down from the ceiling.
"Stupid, friggin....I can't believe...."
Mum's mad, and no wonder! The water has soaked all our clothes in
the cupboard, not to mention Dad's nice leather suitcase.
Dad has also been awoken by her cries and rushes
to rescue the suitcases from the torrent of water now spilling onto
them. Thomas is snoring on his mattress, oblivious to the sudden
chaos surrounding him. Dad has dressed and is out the door to speak
to the manager yet again. Mum snatches our rubbage bin from it's
post on the windowsill, only to have the window plunk down heavily.
"This is crazy!" Mum perches on the edge
of Thomas's bed and laughs at the outrageous situation we've found
ourselves in.
"I thought it was raining!" I chuckle.
"So did I, but the bathroom window was open
and I didn't hear anything from outside. Then I went to bed and
the water continued, so I put two and two together. Your shoes are
wet too," she groans, hauling my shoes out of the now soaking
cupboard.
Great. Just great. My brand new shoes are wet, most
likely growing mold or some other icky green fungus. I'll probably
get rain rot after wearing them, if that's even possible.
"We can't be expected to sleep in here tonight
Mum. We'll have to switch rooms. Can we switch hotel's tomorrow?"
"Well I'm certainly not spending the night
in here. They're outta their minds if they expect that. Maybe we'll
get a refund...." Wishful thinking, I doubt the people running
this hotel have ever given a refund, perhaps they don't even know
the definition of the word.
Dad returns with a fairly well dressed man at his
heels; he must be the manager. He peers into the cupboard where
the water flow has increased.
"It's coming from above." Wow. What a
profound statement. I sure am glad you're able to tell top from
bottom mister.
The man and Dad disappear from the room and stomp
up the stairs in search of the leak. Mum is chuckling again - I
think she's hysterical. It is 1:00AM after all. Thomas has now woken
and groggily shifts around in his bed, squinting his eyes against
the light, even though it's dull. Mum explains what has happened,
but I don't think his fuzzy brain quite registers her words, or
the meaning of them. He groans and retreats beneath the grubby covers
(but clean sheets, thank god!)
The men enter once again; the manager looking a
wee bit stressed out.
"There's a burst pipe on the roof and the water
is leaking through the room up above as well. I'll bring you some
towels, clean up that water." He motions to the puddle at the
foot of my bed; meanwhile the water is still continuing to come
down from the ceiling.
"Oh no. No, no, no. We're not spending the
night in here. You're going to have to find us another room."
Mum's eyes are bloodshot and strained; she's stressed out and on
holiday. Definitely not a good combination.
"Well I'll see......" and with that he
leaves the room briskly, Dad once again following at his heels.
"I'm packing," I decide, "there's
no way they can make us stay in this room. I'm not staying in this
room tonight."
"Me too," Thomas adds, stuffing clothes
back into his bag.
Dad returns and we hopefully look up at him from
our disorganized packing, eager for some good news.
"Well, there was one more room with four beds
in it. It's worse, if you can imagine it. So instead we're going
to have two rooms: one has three beds, the other a single. You three
can sleep together in the one room and I can be in the single. So,
let's move!"
Oh Dad, please don't be cheery, it's too early.
We head out of the room in our pajamas, packing all of our luggage
down the narrow staircases, through the halls and finally we arrive
at our new room. My first impression isn't a bad one at all, in
fact the room is a great improvement compared to Hell's Hovel. There
is a double bed up against one of the walls and a single opposite
it, covered in shabby bedspreads with even more burn holes than
our previous covers. The bathroom is slightly larger, has cold water
and the showerhead is in its proper position. A grungy, bunged-up
table sits behind the door, a large ashtray complimenting a pot-leaf,
is glued onto the surface, grime caked between each crack. Oh well,
at least this room has a table! We drop our luggage and crawl in
between the clean (they better be clean or I'll sue) bedsheets and
lie awake for another hour or so, listening to Thomas squirm about
in his bed, and then his carburetor-like snores fill the silence.
I eventually doze and drop off into the black abyss of sleep.
Morning, finally we can LEAVE! Breakfast is hurriedly
consumed in our new room; plastic bags covering our table for fear
of germs (I don't even want to imagine what has been on that wood,
it makes me shudder). Mum is hustling us along, clearing the area,
searching for forgotten items. Dad's cubbyhole under the stairs
has already been cleaned out and locked: We're ready to head off!
Our checkout runs smoothly: keys handed over, receipt
given to Dad, some mumbled apologies about the leak, and then we're
permitted to leave Hell's Hovel, NEVER TO RETURN!
As we walk down the street, towing our baggage,
off to the train to journey towards our next adventure, I can't
help but think that we truly are survivors, we take whatever comes
our way and deal with it, pull through, and we're generally laughing
all the way. So London may have been the worst regarding accommodations,
but that's life and you live with what you've got and learn from
your mistakes. Either way, it makes for a great story!!!!
THE END
