Travel ecstasy
Budget hotels from Berlin to Bali: Stay in Madras for $4, Tokyo for $37, or New York for $99. Excerpt from the book 'Cheap Hotels' by Daisann McLane
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The drill
At the moment of arrival, my heart begins to flutter. Checking into an unfamiliar hotel is a little like going on a blind date.
No matter how much advance information I've been able to gather from guidebooks or from other travelers, I can't predict if I will be happy, indifferent or miserable until I step into the lobby.
If my reservation is on the books, I relax a little. Other good omens: uniformed employees in the lobby, smiling guests, fresh flowers, a welcome cocktail. Bad omens: bulletproof protective glass around the check-in desk, employees wearing badges that say, "Have a Nice Day My Name Is ..." and domesticated animals. (With the exception of elephants. There's a hotel in South India that is famous for its elephant, which visits the lobby every morning on its way to a nearby temple. This is considered to be very good luck.)
The ritual of signing in follows. In some parts of the world, hotels no longer bother with this; in others, you're handed a form that requests you to list your entire itinerary, your future plans, and your curriculum vitae in block letters on a 3 x 5 card. And then the moment of truth: you are led to The Room. Or given a key and sent off into the dark night with a flashlight.
I prefer carrying my own bag. I like to be alone when I step into a room for the first time; the presence of a hovering bellhop throws my radar off, and I end up not noticing the u-shaped depression in the center of the bed, or the airshaft-facing window.
Tip the bellhop, open the windows, unpack. Take off shoes. Play with the knobs on the mysterious box by the bed-is it a radio? A heater? Toss Balinese sarong over hideous bedspread. Investigate nooks and crannies. Joy is a small refrigerator that works. A pretty clay teapot with a container of green tea leaves and a thermos of boiling water in a Japanese ryokan. A mint condition Art Deco sink in Manhattan. In the tropics, a fluttering ceiling fan. Misery is a bubble gum-pink room lit entirely by cheap florescent bulbs. Mysterious brown stains on the walls. Bedsheets with holes, in India.
I adjust the rabbit ears on the television and decipher the Cyrillic or Chinese characters on the remote. By randomly pressing buttons, I find two stations, each broadcasting the same newscast in a language I can barely make out. Uh oh ... there's a map covered with wavy lines, and a newscaster pointing to a spot and speaking, over and over, a word that sounds like "typhoon." Time to go downstairs and have a drink. If I'm really on a roll, there will be a pool, and enough time for a swim before the deluge.
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]
The drill
At the moment of arrival, my heart begins to flutter. Checking into an unfamiliar hotel is a little like going on a blind date.
No matter how much advance information I've been able to gather from guidebooks or from other travelers, I can't predict if I will be happy, indifferent or miserable until I step into the lobby.
If my reservation is on the books, I relax a little. Other good omens: uniformed employees in the lobby, smiling guests, fresh flowers, a welcome cocktail. Bad omens: bulletproof protective glass around the check-in desk, employees wearing badges that say, "Have a Nice Day My Name Is ..." and domesticated animals. (With the exception of elephants. There's a hotel in South India that is famous for its elephant, which visits the lobby every morning on its way to a nearby temple. This is considered to be very good luck.)
The ritual of signing in follows. In some parts of the world, hotels no longer bother with this; in others, you're handed a form that requests you to list your entire itinerary, your future plans, and your curriculum vitae in block letters on a 3 x 5 card. And then the moment of truth: you are led to The Room. Or given a key and sent off into the dark night with a flashlight.
I prefer carrying my own bag. I like to be alone when I step into a room for the first time; the presence of a hovering bellhop throws my radar off, and I end up not noticing the u-shaped depression in the center of the bed, or the airshaft-facing window.
Tip the bellhop, open the windows, unpack. Take off shoes. Play with the knobs on the mysterious box by the bed-is it a radio? A heater? Toss Balinese sarong over hideous bedspread. Investigate nooks and crannies. Joy is a small refrigerator that works. A pretty clay teapot with a container of green tea leaves and a thermos of boiling water in a Japanese ryokan. A mint condition Art Deco sink in Manhattan. In the tropics, a fluttering ceiling fan. Misery is a bubble gum-pink room lit entirely by cheap florescent bulbs. Mysterious brown stains on the walls. Bedsheets with holes, in India.
I adjust the rabbit ears on the television and decipher the Cyrillic or Chinese characters on the remote. By randomly pressing buttons, I find two stations, each broadcasting the same newscast in a language I can barely make out. Uh oh ... there's a map covered with wavy lines, and a newscaster pointing to a spot and speaking, over and over, a word that sounds like "typhoon." Time to go downstairs and have a drink. If I'm really on a roll, there will be a pool, and enough time for a swim before the deluge.
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]
Cheap Hotels
Hardcover, 16.5 x 22.2 cm (6.5 x 8.7 in.), 192 pages
$ 19.99
$ 19.99
Budget hotels from Berlin to Bali
