The Very Worst Hotel

Not naming any names, but it was not COMFORTable.

I am going to apologize in advance for my subpar content; my original intention was to wait and publish a column on Tuesday, as I spent the weekend traveling, but I find myself in the unique position of having quite an engaging story to tell. So settle in.

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I got to go back to Iowa this weekend to see a few of my very favorite people on the planet, and oh my, it was a joy for us all to be reunited. Girlfriends are amazing and priceless and we keep each other afloat. We cried and laughed and laughed until we cried and really, any combination of laughing and crying you could fathom, we did it. Now that’s all I’m going to write about the beautiful experience of going home and being with people who knew you 25 years ago. You can read more about that in my Breadcrumbs Across the Midwest adventure from July. I’m going to change gears and instead tell you about the nightmarish “hotel” experience my college bestie and I have been living for the past 90 minutes.

It was dark, and we were tired. We drove an hour after tearfully bidding our other besties farewell. It took forever to check in, and as we waited, we each took a crappy complimentary toothbrush with a tiny, ridiculously named toothpaste (J-Me? What? Why?) that probably doesn’t work but we ran out of toothpaste yesterday, and actually, upon further reflection, what if they weren’t complimentary and we were supposed to pay for them and maybe we karmically brought the following events upon ourselves? They were with other sundries that were likely not free, hmmm.

As we walked down the hall, it appeared that every single door had been kicked in at some point in the past decade. Why did the doors look so shitty? This is unclear. So when we walked into our room, I cheerfully exclaimed, “Oh! It’s cute! I was worried it would be a total shithole!” (Insert foreboding gong of doom.)

We fling our belongings everywhere, ready to settle in and already spreading out.

“Is that a. . . donut bag?” I asked my companion with trepidation. I was mostly making a joke because it looked like a donut bag but why would there actually be a donut bag on our hotel dresser?, and yet. As I got closer I realized that it was in fact a donut bag. My friend was excited—”Oh! They give you complimentary donuts!”— but I was concerned. This seems unlikely. Why was this item in my hotel room? Was somebody hiding in here? Were we being pranked? We opened the Dunkin’ Donuts bag to find. . . several candy wrappers lying atop four donut holes.

You serious, Clark?

Okay, okay, that’s weird, but we can deal with this! My friend went to the bathroom, and when she came out she informed me that there was yet more trash in the bathroom, perched on top of the bathtub. She described it, and I quote as, “Appearing to be like those weird pantyhose socks our moms used to wear but was maybe just wadded up paper towel.” I find this curious. I feel like I’m being taunted somehow, like my food trash bandit 12-year-old somehow followed me here and is fucking with me.

As I open the door to go out to the car to get more things, I’m greeted by the sounds of a dog viciously barking and growling. When my eyes caught up with my ears in this slow motion horror show, I realized that AN UNLEASHED PIT BULL IS RUNNING RIGHT AT ME. In a hotel hallway. I shriek, unplanned profanities tumbling out of my mouth. “Fuck! What in the fuck is happening? There’s a fucking dog in the hallway!” I bellow to my roomie at top volume, slamming the door in its face before the animal could eat me, as it bounded through the air, saliva glistening in it razor sharp teeth, jowls wobbling menacingly. It was like a zombie hellhound, and I was a hapless traveler in Birkenstocks and pajama pants.

Now, readers, my friend is a compassionate woman, but I have to be truthful: This incident caused her to fall face down onto her bed laughing until she couldn’t breathe. I’m not mad at her. Yes, I nearly died in a shitty hotel hallway in Iowa, but the absurdity of this encounter made it all worthwhile. But this story doesn’t end with discarded donuts and crazed canines.

We decided to climb into our beds and watch an episode of “I Think You Should Leave,” the hands-down funniest TV show on Netflix, and as my bare foot slid into my bed, I exclaimed again, this time in horror, throwing back the sheets. I expected to find maybe some sort of insect or maybe someone’s lost hair tie (I mean, ew. Nobody should ever find *anything* in their hotel bed.) It was a piece of candy, you guys. In my bed. Chocolate candy, its wrapper likely tidily discarded in a Dunkin Donuts bag. In. My. Bed.

It’s my bed, Schwartz! My bed! (Bonus points to anyone who correctly identifies my movie reference/bad joke combo and messages me. Double bonus for the previous reference too)

At this point, I call down to the front desk, “Hi, so I’m the woman who checked in a little while ago? And, um, we’re having some problems with our room?” My friend is laughing so hard she can’t speak. I start to giggle too, assuring the 19-year-old night clerk that I’m serious. “So, when we got here, there was a donut bag with some trash on the dresser, and some more trash on the bathtub, but then there’s actually a piece of candy in my bed. And also, an unleashed pit bull charged me, and basically I think we’re going to need a new room, and also, I’m pretty sure I’m going to need my money back.”

Trisha (I made her name up, I love doing that) was very apologetic and offered to upgrade us to a suite. “That would be great, as long as there are two beds,” I concurred. I went downstairs to get the new keys, at which point young Trish told me she would need me to bring the old keys back. “Like, now?” I felt confused. It seemed a little inappropriate to make me run back and forth at 10:30 pm when my bare foot had been assaulted by chocolate that touched someone else’s mouth.

“Yes, please,” she said. “Um, we’ll do our best,” I said noncommittally, heading for the elevator. I opened our new room first to take it in. There was one bed, you guys. I informed my semi-hysterical roommate of this development, traipsed back downstairs, and waited for eight minutes for Trisha to wrap up a phone call that probably should have waited until I left, and then said, “Hi. So, we need two beds. That one has one. I said I needed two because there are two of us and we aren’t ‘together.’” I used air quotes in case that confused her.

“Oh, okay I didn’t know you needed two beds. How does the first floor work?” “Fine, that’s fine,” I said impatiently. “And, like, I know this isn’t your problem, but I’m definitely going to need my money back. It’s 10:30 and we have to get to the airport first thing.”

“OK, my boss will be in later if you’re up, but she may not give you your money back. She’s pretty stingy,” Trisha said slowly.

“Mmkay, that’s fine. I can be a real bitch when I need to darling, so I’ll take my chances. Thanks for your help!” I depart with friendliness, gritting my teeth.

When I reached our room, I see that my friend has packed up all our shit (there was so very much stuff. Why did we buy so much food for a weekend trip? Grapes? Apples? Who the fuck do we think we are?) and has left the following delightful note for the hotel staff:

Problematic content has been ineffectively blacked out.

We have unpacked and repacked. There are so many food bags and suitcases and purses. It’s so late. We are both braless and my friend is shoeless. “We have to go downstairs again,” I inform her with resignation. We trudge to the elevator, unharnessed tits swinging.

The floor of the elevator is inexplicably wet, unwelcome news to my barefoot friend who concludes, perhaps not unreasonably, that the wetness is pit bull urine. She deftly avoids stepping in it, and we enter our third room, which appears to be clean and donut-free.

I decide to PURCHASE LUGGAGE AT WALMART first thing in the morning to accommodate the extra items we have accrued in our 48 hours. Spending $100 in order to transport $48 worth of grocery items is a solid move, and I stand behind my choice. By the time this is published, it’s unclear whether our return trip will be fraught with further calamity OH MY GOD I LIVE IN CONSTANT FEAR THAT SOMETHING I WRITE WILL BE A TRUE FAMOUS LAST WORDS SITUATION THAT WILL BE TRAGICALLY IRONIC UPON MY UNTIMELY DEMISE I HOPE I DIDN’T JUST JINX US.

I’m so tired, you guys. I’m going to gingerly crawl beneath these sheets and fall asleep. After I eat this donut hole. (I’m kidding! That’s so gross. Plus, I’m gluten free, you guys.) Please forgive me for this missive, and please don’t unsubscribe.

XOXO,
Steph