Hotel Sweet Hotel
My home away from home, The President Hotel, has fallen on hard times. It's not immediately apparent from the outside, as there's a white Mercedes always in the front drive, and a pride of long-lashed, barely legal doormen who always shyly smile at you if you make eye contact while they hold the door.
The brochure, which may have been printed in the early '80s, judging from the dress-for-success suits sported by the businesswomen in the photos, boasts copywriting gems like this one: A pleasant surprise, the swimming pool is ingeniously suspended on the 2nd floor with crystal clear water tempting you to loll & laze and have fun & frolic to your heart's content.
I could go on, listing the promises of top service and gourmet delights, but it would be cruel. The food's fine, but there is a mouse who lives in the restaurant. To be honest, I haven't seen much evidence to contradict the theory that we are the only three guests in the place.
The Man Who Can Only Do One Thing At A Time works the front desk. He'll have lengthy phone conversations before deigning to give you your room key. If asked for directions, he'll hand you a book and tell you to keep it, even though your destination is not in the book. Sometimes he refuses to give change for Rs 500 notes, even though we swear that we saw a full drawer earlier.
The cleaning staff alternately pampers and punishes me. I often leave a towel on the floor to soak up some of the shower water that inevitably pools in the corner of the room, making a tiny pond that the Hotel President could boast about should they ever reprint the brochure (Deluxe rooms with tiny ponds for your pleasure of maintaining sea monkeys or other organic beings! Nature retreat to relax the mind!). Sometimes they leave me two towels, sometimes they chide me for my sloppiness with just one. I go for days without replacement toilet paper, but several extra bars of soap arrive daily without fail. My bedspread (a recent purchase) often gets folded and stacked on the other bed in my room, as if to warn me that messing around with the furnishings is not a good idea.
Then again, maybe whoever cleans the room is just having a good time. On the nightstand, I have both an itty bitty Babe doll (a Happy Meal toy, which is another post for another day, but how crazy is it to go order a farm animal to eat and then get one as a plaything? Is McDonald's trying to turn a nation of kids vegan?) and a marble Ganesh that's a little less than an inch tall. I came home Sunday night to find Ganesh sitting on top of Babe. The path of logic that led to this, I have no idea, but I so love that a singing pig is escorting the remover of obstacles around my shabbily furnished room.
Saturday night, when we came home from dinner, we said our goodnights in the hall before heading to our rooms. A man came out, dressed in a tank top and a leopard print towel, looked at all of us, and then walked down to the end of the hall to the open window, where he proceeded to smoke and scowl at us. These are the sorts of things that seem entirely natural at the Hotel President. For $14 a night, complaining would be excessive.
The brochure, which may have been printed in the early '80s, judging from the dress-for-success suits sported by the businesswomen in the photos, boasts copywriting gems like this one: A pleasant surprise, the swimming pool is ingeniously suspended on the 2nd floor with crystal clear water tempting you to loll & laze and have fun & frolic to your heart's content.
I could go on, listing the promises of top service and gourmet delights, but it would be cruel. The food's fine, but there is a mouse who lives in the restaurant. To be honest, I haven't seen much evidence to contradict the theory that we are the only three guests in the place.
The Man Who Can Only Do One Thing At A Time works the front desk. He'll have lengthy phone conversations before deigning to give you your room key. If asked for directions, he'll hand you a book and tell you to keep it, even though your destination is not in the book. Sometimes he refuses to give change for Rs 500 notes, even though we swear that we saw a full drawer earlier.
The cleaning staff alternately pampers and punishes me. I often leave a towel on the floor to soak up some of the shower water that inevitably pools in the corner of the room, making a tiny pond that the Hotel President could boast about should they ever reprint the brochure (Deluxe rooms with tiny ponds for your pleasure of maintaining sea monkeys or other organic beings! Nature retreat to relax the mind!). Sometimes they leave me two towels, sometimes they chide me for my sloppiness with just one. I go for days without replacement toilet paper, but several extra bars of soap arrive daily without fail. My bedspread (a recent purchase) often gets folded and stacked on the other bed in my room, as if to warn me that messing around with the furnishings is not a good idea.
Then again, maybe whoever cleans the room is just having a good time. On the nightstand, I have both an itty bitty Babe doll (a Happy Meal toy, which is another post for another day, but how crazy is it to go order a farm animal to eat and then get one as a plaything? Is McDonald's trying to turn a nation of kids vegan?) and a marble Ganesh that's a little less than an inch tall. I came home Sunday night to find Ganesh sitting on top of Babe. The path of logic that led to this, I have no idea, but I so love that a singing pig is escorting the remover of obstacles around my shabbily furnished room.
Saturday night, when we came home from dinner, we said our goodnights in the hall before heading to our rooms. A man came out, dressed in a tank top and a leopard print towel, looked at all of us, and then walked down to the end of the hall to the open window, where he proceeded to smoke and scowl at us. These are the sorts of things that seem entirely natural at the Hotel President. For $14 a night, complaining would be excessive.
posted by Rebecca at 3:27 AM
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