Plugin Hell

What is it about hotels and the inconvenience of their electrical sockets?

Most places only seem to have the one which is ridiculously annoying on so many levels. Some hotels or hostels seem to house their single socket in the most awkward part of the room which makes it near impossible to charge all of your needed items in the space of a night without careful planning and disrupted sleep. I mean if you need to charge your phone, Ipad and camera for the morning (which I found a needed to do on numerous occasions on my travels) well it is near impossible to succeed… Look the difference in price between a single socket and a double socket is about 50p. It’s not THAT much of a cost is it? Why not forget the £10 cost of the Bible that most people have no intention of reading* and invest in a double socket instead…Or forget about adding body lotion to the complimentary soap and shampoo pile and install that other socket.

There are some establishments who not only just have the one socket but they locate it in the most ridiculous place possible… Have you ever seen a sign in your room highlighting the danger of setting off the fire alarm if you use the hairdryer anywhere near the heat sensor? Well how on earth is this unavoidable if the ONLY socket in the room is wired directly UNDERNEATH the heat sensor or sprinkler head?

I’ve set off the fire alarm in two separate hostels in two separate continents because of this idiotic design feature. Once in the best hostel I’ve ever stayed (even with this design fault) in Melbourne and once in an ok lodge in New Zealand’s National Park. Both occasions resulted in me embarrassingly leaving my room in shorts, t shirt, frizzy half bouffanted hair and red face… But it wasn’t my fault that the only place I could dry my hair was underneath the blasted heat sensor. Did the architect not factor in hygiene when designing the layout of the rooms? That person must be one smelly buffoon is all I can say.

Like how Simba learned his lesson and avoided Mafeke’s stick in the Lion King I learned how to minimise such a situation by adapting to my surroundings. On more than one occasion I found myself drying my hair whilst lying down flat on the floor in the hope that the heat off the dryer would cool down a bit by the time it reached the sensor. I have also plugged my dryer in a socket in the bedroom while actually standing in the bathroom (housed next to the socket) with the door half closed.

Never in a million years did I expect to carry out a risk assessment on my lodgings before I used any electrical items but this is something I became accustomed to. However there was one hostel in New Zealand that I just didn’t bother making the effort. After all, when a sprinkler head (which reacts to heat) is located right above the shower head INSIDE the shower there’s just no hope is there.

Seriously… sort it out hotels!!!!

Luckily, the IFC series Portlandia has come up with the solution….

*pure speculation. no offence intended to Bible readers. 

If you have felt my pain and would like a platform to voice your opinion I would love to hear from you and publish your story on my new Plush Rugs and Bed Bugs website which is currently in development. Email clare@plushrugsandbedbugs.com with your story or any queries. 

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Pigeon Street

I’m a terrible sleep walker… If I’m not screaming out of the window of high rise buildings thinking that someone’s just stolen my bicycle (???) I’m jumping out of my skin thinking that snakes are falling from the ceiling and on to my head. Luckily these are just moments of insanity. What’s not imagination trickery however are the pesky little things that accompany my adventures… If it’s not ants it’s bed bugs and if it’s not bed bugs it’s pigeons…

I’m always a little bit apprehensive when I open the door to a room for the first time. I've realised that during the split second of door opening action I hold my breath (just as I do when I’m taking a photograph) because I never know what to expect… the size, the smell, the dust, the state of the bed, the dead body in the wardrobe etc…  

Now the last thing I expected to find when I opened the door into my Vancouver ‘hotel’ room was to be flapped around the face by a pigeon.

Yeah you read that right. After dragging my very very very heavy (very very very heavy) suitcase up two of the largest flights of stairs I have ever walked up (until a Brighton b&b in May 2013 that is) I finally got to the door of my room. I turned the key and was nearly knocked out by a panic stricken GIGANTIC screeching pigeon and it’s flapping wings… Who in turn was nearly knocked out by a panic stricken GIGANTIC screeching human and it’s flapping arms. I've checked into a room before to find somebody asleep on the bed but a pigeon is a first. Still… I think a chocolate on the pillow would have been a more customary welcoming gift.

After the battle of ushering the pigeon out of the window I went straight back down to reception to highlight them of the situation and beg for a different room. Comically the receptionist was a Spaniard whose vocabulary hadn't had the pleasure of being introduced to what I am sure is the most important of the bird family. Something I am now passionately campaigning schools to include in their language curriculum after numeracy, time and food… bird species. So I had to bring out my best acting capabilities to describe how there was a pigeon in my room. After realising that a pigeon was not in fact a chicken which was what I was seemingly acting out I cooed and flapped my charade. I’m used to people laughing at me and looking at me with perplexed looks so I got the hint quite quickly that she hadn't got a clue what I was going on about. In the end, I just said the word ‘bird’ and hallebloodyluiah I was given another room.  

I was quite excited, if a little apprehensive about getting this new room as the kind Spaniard upgraded me to a double room. Whoop I hear you cry… Well I bloody cried as it turned out to be a room right by a Chinese takeaway with their ventilation duct blowing right into my window. Fandabibloodydosy. I went from sharing a room with a live pigeon to sharing a room with the aroma of the carcasses of god only knows what. I thought it would be ok though as you get used to smells don’t you. Well not this time… Instead of my usual sleepwalks and hallucinations I found myself waking up in the middle of the night thinking I was being drowned in a tub of Szechuan cuisine. On the plus side though I woke up every morning craving fruit and salad which was a delight to my dieting aspirations. So you know, swings and roundabouts and all that.

I'd actually stayed in this 'hotel' a week before. I use the word hotel lightly as it was one of those places that called itself 'hotel' but was in fact, more of a hostel. It got really bad reviews on Tripadvisor mainly because of high expectations and low standards. Vancouver is a ridiculously expensive city and I really struggled finding anywhere affordable to stay. In the end I chose a place that was the worst reviewed hotel on Tripadvisor but the cheapest. For this reason I was quite apprehensive on my initial visit. However, with the exception of the deepest, freshest and bloodiest stain I have ever encountered it wasn't that bad. So I wasn't terribly nervous about my impending stay a week later.

           Well, that was until I encountered the ghost of Jack Duckworth flapping before my eyes.  

  

An idiot in Cabbage Town

You may or may not have gathered by now that my posts are in no chronological order whatsoever. I just write them as I remember them. So here goes another tale of woe. Although this one is more a reflection of my own judgement than my accommodation...

Just before my Harlem Hoopla (take a look at my first post if you have no idea what i'm on about http://plushrugsandbedbugs.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/harlem-hoopla.html ) I spent a week in the East Canadian city of Toronto... Now the week prior to me arriving my instinct and every bone in my body was telling me to changing my plans from where I was at that time in Vancouver and head to Portland, Oregon USA. I will spare you from the long winded reasoning behind these instincts. All I will say is that had I not blown over $400 of my budgeted travelling money in Las Vegas a few weeks before, I'd be talking about how I managed to help 'keep Portland weird' rather than my Ontario experience. However, being a plonker and all I had no choice but to stick to my original plan and head to Toronto... Damn that Bellagio Hotel buffet in Vegas!!!

I had a bad feeling about going to Toronto. This wasn't eased during my flight from Vancouver when talking to a lady sitting next me about where I was staying... Normally the polite thing to say is 'ohhhhh it's not too bad, just keep your whits about you' you know in a reassuring type way so that you're made aware of the need to be alert but you're not actually scared... So while waiting for the inevitable 'ohhhhh' moment I looked at the lady's face and rather than providing me with a reaction of relief I saw a really troublesome look and then she reached into her purse. Well this was worrying... Writing her name and telephone number on a piece of paper she told me to call her if I got into any kind of trouble or needed any help day or night. Wow... What kindness from a stranger. Wow... What the hell have I got myself into?!!!

So I arrived at the airport at about 9pm and waited for a driver of the guesthouse's airport service to pick me up. I was a bit aggrieved having to book this means of transport actually but had no choice because Toronto Pearson airport is a pain in the ass to get to and from. I mean what kind of airport doesn't offer a door to door airport shuttle?... Only the busiest in Canada!!! They do offer a bus that drops off at particular hotels but that doesn't run through my part of town (go figure) and being quite late at night it would have created problems with collecting my key from the guesthouse so I forked out my left kidney for their airport pickup car. It turned out to be the owner's son who was looking after the house for a while. He was genuinely a likable guy giving me tips on things to see and do during the hour long journey to the B&B. When we reached the front door I was glad I booked his services. For a start, I'd never have found it on my own as the house is not clearly marked as a guesthouse but also I immediately felt uneasy about the area it was located in... Old Cabbage Town.

The great thing about Toronto is that all of the districts are clearly signposted with their collective name. When I first saw the sign at the end of my street with the name Old Cabbage Town on it I howled with laughter. When the town planners were naming their streets who on earth would think to name a place Cabbage Town?... Brilliant. After a few days I realised that it was incredibly apt. Every city has a drug dealing, crime ridden, poverty stricken area in it doesn't it? Well it just so happens I found myself staying right in the middle of Toronto's.

Note to self... actually read emails sent to you from prospective lodgings... If I had read the email sent to me by the owner of the guesthouse stating clearly in bold capital letters that I had to PAY IN CASH when I arrived I would have been spared the angst of having to walk around the streets of Old Cabbage Town at 10pm trying to find a cashpoint in order to draw out a wad of dollars to pay for my room. If trying to find a cashpoint that would let me withdraw more than just $20 wasn't scary enough, walking the streets with a serious amount of cash on my person made me grateful for wearing my Tena Lady that day I can tell you (though admittedly probably shouldn't). What a great introduction to the area in the middle of the night. Terrified doesn't even cover it. I was beginning to hate Toronto before I properly stepped foot in it.

The Comfy Guest House and Suite was exactly that, it was a guesthouse with a number of bedrooms spanning two floors. You had to take your shoes off by the front door before walking around the house and just outside the bathroom was all the amenities you would need, hairdryer, iron, mouth wash, cotton buds etc. Well at least I think they were for public use anyway? My room was tiny and a bit hard to manouvre around but as I didn't intend to spend much time in there I wasn't that bothered... Turns out within an hour of checking in my intentions about not being in there too long came to pass. Why so soon? Well because I am an idiot that's why.

The 15th April 2013 will go down in my personal history as being the day that I became a cabbage in Cabbage Town... If having to walk around downtown junkieville Toronto at night wasn't embarrassing enough, I thought i'd do one better and lock myself out of my bedroom at midnight... I actually locked myself out of my bedroom within one hour of checking in... What a twat! You see what happened was I just went to the lavatory (yes I genuinely do call the toilet/WC/bathroom lavatory... so bite me!) and closed my bedroom door behind me: shook the handle... felt that it locked... realised I didn't have the key... shook again... said oh shit... went to the lavatory... channelled my happy thought... came out... repeated steps 1 to 5... cried. I officially hated Toronto.

Luckily at the last minute of me leaving my bedroom I decided to put on my pyjama trousers as I was only wearing knickers at the time (really sorry for that horrific image now lodged in your brains). I nearly didn't though as I thought that nobody would actually see me so late at night. Thank Superman that I did. It was weird though... I always carry keys and my phone with me no matter where I go. The one occasion I didn't turns out to be the one where I actually needed them! What a douche.

So I was locked out with nothing other than my pyjamas on my person. I needed to find a way to open the door. I went up to the kitchen on the first floor and got a knife cause you know a knife works just like a precisely cut key doesn't it? Shockingly that didn't work... idiot. I was desperate. I think I even tried to put a cotton bud into the keyhole to see if that would open the door. I was actually delirious due to exhaustion from lack of sleep and stress from earlier events. I was never going to open the door. There was no living room in this house however there was a kitchen so I went up there to calm down and decide what to do. The owner of the guesthouse was somewhere in foreign shores and with his son not living in the house it was too late at night to call him to let me back in. Well I could have done but I'm too polite to bother somebody like that. I had no choice but to sit the night out in the kitchen before I could call for help in the morning... And boy they were the longest 9 hours of my life.

Nine hours you're thinking to yourself??? Why didn't I call for help sooner than 9am? Well I couldn't work out how to use the telephone in the kitchen could I. It was as if I needed some sort of Canadian secret code to dial out of the house. Honestly, it was hell. The kitchen was designed for practicality not comfort... Four wooden chairs and a glass table. That's it. No sofa, no chez lounge, no double bed. I tried every position imaginable to try and sleep on the chairs but couldn't. I had no choice but to basically sit at the table all night. I was so bored that I started to read a book that was underneath the table. It was a German love story... In German. Actually even though I didn't understand a word it was a riveting read which killed a couple of hours. Just before 9am a Spanish gentleman suddenly appeared and made breakfast. He looked at me in total horror when I told him about the last 9 hours. Not because I'd just spent the night in the kitchen but because I couldn't figure out how to dial a number on the telephone. He still helped me though and after an hour I was finally let back into the room when the landlord's son kindly returned to the property.

My impressions of Toronto were tainted from the start and never really got any better. But that's what happens when a idiot finds herself in Cabbage Town.

Vulgar Victoria

After my 8th night in the Harlem hell hole that was the Thomas Family B&B it was time to make my journey back to England. The new and enlightened me, after three and a half months travelling around the world, wasn't ready to go straight back to my hometown of Stoke on Trent (even though I could have murdered a cheese oatcake) so I booked a few nights in London to ease me back into British culture and practices. Not that it made much difference as I still find myself saying 'can I have the check please...' instead of 'can I have the bill...' to this very day. Oh and my obsession with Samuel Adams beer doesn't seem to be fading anytime soon. But anyway, I digress...

I booked myself into the Grapevine Hotel in Victoria for two nights. I'd heard through the grapevine (Tripadvisor) that it had bad reviews however most of the comments seemed to be about the size of the rooms and petty little things that I had become accustom to during my travels i.e. having to walk up stairs and not having daily maid service etc... My instinct based on experience and the price I paid was telling me that it was more like a 'hostel' than a 'hotel' so I was not expecting luxury standards. As long as it was safe and I had clean sheets I would be happy. And quite frankly Mr Shankly, I felt that anything would be an improvement on the shit stained sheets of my prior Harlem lodgings.

I arrived at The Grapevine an hour earlier than the designated check-in time. My room, which was in a separate building to reception, wasn't ready but they kindly gave me the key and let me take my luggage up to the room anyway. Sometimes I wish my physique was more like Fatima Whitbred than Fatty Arbuckle because having to walk up three flights of stairs with a 24kg suitcase in tow was no easy trek. Once I finally made it to my room on the top floor (with a complexion that looked like I had injected tomato colourant into my cheeks) the maid was in there still cleaning my room. She was really pleasant and welcoming trying to make me feel at ease leaving my luggage there. Now, having just spent 45 days in North America talking to any Tom, Dick and Cheney on subways, buses, trains, restaurants, bars, sidewalks etc... as that is what people do over there, I had become used to chatting to anybody and I suppose everybody in the most random of circumstances where in England you would be construed as a weirdo for even smiling in politeness. Admittedly offering to make the maid a cup of tea while she was working was perhaps taking this new found social awareness a step too far. Yeah you read that right, I offered to make the maid a cup of tea! As someone who has genuinely used the phrase 'Time to lean? Time to Clean' in their professional life even I was surprised at my generous offer which flowed from my lips as smooth as saying hello. We ended up having quite a nice chat actually. She was from Romania studying to be a dental technician and that was her last day working for the Grapevine Hotel. Making that conversation set me up for a good day. Little did I know twelve hours later I would be cursing her lazy half arsed routines.

Now I don't plan on writing about how I struggled to fit into the half square footed shower or how the water just flowed across the entire floor including the actual bedroom itself. I'm tempted to write a whole paragraph about the goings on of the dozens of pigeons outside my window but hearing them getting funky with each other is bad enough let alone writing about it too. And I'm not going to write too much about the stale breakfast items with ants crawling everywhere in the breakfast room. I'm going to get straight to the reason why the Grapevine Hotel became the worst hotel I have ever stayed in my 32 year old life.

I had just flown in from New York on a night flight. I planned to get a few hours sleep but it ended up being seven hours of insomnia due to screenings of Modern Family and the dumb bimbo sitting next to me fidgeting every 30 minutes or so using my tray table as a foot rest. Suffice to say, when I arrived at Heathrow at 10am I had been awake since 9am New York time the previous day. I was shattered. I'd kind of worked out my jet lag issues I previously suffered from by sticking to local time of the place where I was going to. Because my plan of kipping on the plane failed, I knew that if I could work my way through the day without any sleep I would be fine. So my plan was to dump my bags, spend the day mooching around London and hit the hay once it got dark. Everything seemed to be going the way I had hoped and finally made it to 8pm when I gave in and got into bed. Get in, I love it when a plan comes together!!!

I found myself awake at midnight. Out of habit I reached for my phone and started chatting to a couple of friends on messenger as you do. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw something run down the side of the pillow right by my face. Just as if I had heard the Ice Cream Man come round the corner, I jumped up fast out of the bed. I thought it was just my imagination as I have a tendency to sleep walk and even though I was awake I thought I was still a bit delirious. So I wasn't really panicking. Well that was until I turned on the light, looked at my bed and saw dozens, yes DOZENS, of bugs zooming around the bed. Oh. My. God. OMFG!!!! OMMFG!!!! I have a habit of staring like a gormless lemon in times of shock and this was no exception. I couldn't believe my eyes. The bed was absolutely covered with bugs running everywhere. There was something large on the bed which was the size of a garden pea but shaped like a seed. I got a piece of toilet paper to squash it. What can only be described as a clot of the purest reddest blood I have ever seen was now on this tissue. This was no petunia. This was a bed bug!!! I then squashed a few more of the bugs and the same red blotches came out in the tissue. No cartlidge, no skin, just pure blood... Vile... My bed was literally crawling in bed bugs!!!!

I've been around the world and stayed in over 30 different lodgings. Up until the moment I took the mick out of an advertisement for a bed bug killing suitcase (http://plushrugsandbedbugs.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/harlem-hoopla.html) I've never encountered the terror of bed bug attacks. I mock a product (which I now think is brilliant by the way) and all of a sudden it's like a bed bug bonanza. Karma is a bitch!!!

I had to get out of that room as fast as I could and wasn't ashamed of walking out like a bit of a tramp. So in the middle of the night I was literally forced to go onto the streets of London in my pyjamas. It reminded me of a scene actually involving Clara in Pigeon Street I saw in about 1985. Oh the larks. But anyway, I digress... I practically ran to reception which was located in another building around the corner from mine. After showing the blood filled toilet paper to the gentleman at reception who obviously couldn't believe his eyes I got a key to another room. In reflection I'm not sure what he was more horrified by, the bed bugs or me in my pyjamas with accompanying spaniel eared unsupported saggy boobs? I made my way back to the room, quickly packed all of my things away and made my way down the stairs into another room. Even though it was about half past midnight and I was shattered, I jumped straight into the shower. Then drama number two happened... After about 1 minute with half of my hair wet, the power went. Really!!!! So now I couldn't even wash the bugs away. Luckily I had left the key in the door to the bug room so I had to go back into the bug infested room to finish off my shower.

So much for my plan of beating jet lag. Think it was about 4am when I finally settled and slept. I got a knock at the door the next morning by the manager offering his apologies. I was still a bit delirious so the fact that I let him talk to me with just my t-shirt and knickers on didn't bother me at all. And quite frankly Mr Shankly, he deserved that image! He did annoy me though. His apology consisted of the excuse that it's actually the guests who bring in bed bugs on their luggage... Was he really blaming me?... Twat!!!... It obviously had nothing to do with poor housekeeping routines and a single sheet over the bare mattress then? A sheet which incidently was so small that it didn't even cover the whole mattress. Funny how I didn't have a problem in the other room isn't it?

In all fairness to the hotel (or shall I say bugtel) they did refund my whole two night stay. But as I am still jet lagged now a month later on that won't help me forgive the reason why the Grapevine Hotel left a very sour taste in my mouth!

Harlem Hoopla

If it sounds too good to be true you can bet your last dollar that it will be. I recently stayed 8 nights in a B&B in Harlem for a quarter of the price than any B&B or hostel in the whole of New York state. The Thomas family B&B which advertises itself as a 'cosy place to settle into after a long day of pounding the New York City pavement' is the perfect example of how I really need to start to trust my instincts and avoid, avoid, avoid!!! Things are normally cheap for a reason.



I think there was a power in the Universe pulling me away from the apartment before I even arrived. With New York having the easiest subway network in the world to navigate, I somehow managed to end up in Queens rather than Harlem when I was on my way to check in. The B&B is located right by the subway stop on 135th Street so how I jumped on the wrong train (for 20 minutes before realising) is beyond me. When I finally arrived the love child of Whitney Houston (post crack) and Sweet Brown (ain't nobody got time for that) was waiting for me behind a padlocked gate. We made our way through the courtyard to the house where I would be staying. It was a Narnia type environment with fruit trees and foliage lining the path to the apartment door. What soon became clear was that I was not staying with the Huxtables in their cream carpeted Harlem brownstone but with the Browns, a crazy random figurine filled apartment behind their actual home. Not a problem as cheap and kitschy are two of my favourite things.



My room wasn't ready for me to move in when I arrived. It wasn't right but it was ok. I told Whitney she could make it up later on in the day. I was heading out to Manhattan til later in the evening anyway. However, when I came back at 8pm the room still wasn't ready. There was just a white plastic sheet on the bed with nothing else in sight. It was 8 o'clock in the evening and my room still hadn't been prepared. I stood there like a gormless lemon for a few minutes pondering whether this was how it was supposed to be. Did I have to bring my own sheets, quilt, pillows, etc? I couldn't believe I was going to be sleeping on a plastic sheet actually. It was at this point that my brain said to me 'what the hell have you booked?'. After a few minutes of goon-like staring at the white sheet the landlady came in.
'You came back?'.
'erm yes'.
'Oh you came back early. My husband took me out for dinner... You came back?'
Well no shit Sherlock. Of course I would be coming back. Oh my days. Think I preferred the room when it wasn't ready. Over the white plastic sheet was an incredibly thin multi-coloured polyester sheet ingrained with dirt. It was disgusting. There was a quilt and blanket over it with practically identical stains. But being quite late at night I had no choice but accept it.



The house had wooden shutters on all the windows instead of blinds or curtains. To be honest, I got the feeling that you could see into my bedroom even when the light was off. What a paranoid android. I didn't want to be seen going to the bathroom late at night from outside so I closed a shutter in the hallway which was near my bedroom door. About half an hour later I had the fright of my life. Everywhere had low voltage lights so it was really difficult to see when it was dark. I was making my way to the bathroom across the hall when all of a sudden a figure in the dark startled me. It was the landlady. She went over to the shutter I had closed and opened it. Then channeling the spirit of Whitney, gave me some spiel about how better it would be to keep the shutter open. You know, because of the views of the garden and that. In pitch black darkness!!! She obviously just wanted to see inside. I was staying in this four bedroom townhouse all by myself. I would have heard noises from opening doors and feet walking up stairs but I never heard her enter the building. She was like a ninja. Now, not only did I get the impression that I really WAS being watched but I felt a bit queasy that Sweet Whitney would turn up at any given second and I wouldn't have a clue.

Sleeping on a plastic sheet and dirty linen is not a pleasurable experience. Waking up to find an ant crawling on my bed was even less so. Looking to my left and seeing a handful of ants pottering about the window cil was even less so than that. I woke up as an extra on Antz. They were coming in thick and fast. Just like everything seems to be bigger in America these ants were no exception. They were massive. I told the landlady that there was a bit of a problem and ant killer was needed. For some strange reason, I didn't believe that she would do anything about it so I went to Home Depot and bought some poison myself. Later on in the evening when I returned I was right. She hadn't done anything, except water the dozens of trees lining her courtyard. The Message by Grandmaster Flash started playing in my head as I was watching dozens of ants pile into my bedroom from every crevice along the window. I ended up getting some kitchen paper and started stuffing it into all of the open cracks along the cil I could find. The light in my bedroom didn't work (probably intentionally to hide the dirt and bugs) so I was using a flashlight on my phone. I had the second fright of my life when I looked up to see the silhouette created by one piece of paper. I thought it was a giant ant coming in to attack me.



It took a couple of days to stop the flow of ants but finally I could relax at night. A few days later I was riding the subway quite late at night with just another lady in the same carriage as me. Just as I was getting ready to make my way out at the next stop I looked up and saw an advert on the wall of the train. It was for a suitcase where the unique selling feature was that it kills bed bugs. Yeah you heard me, a suitcase that kills bed bugs!!! It heats up with an electrical socket and everything. I had quite a good giggle with my fellow passenger about how crazy this product was. I went home thinking that it was the kind of ridiculous thing that the Apprentice candidates would pitch to Lord Sugar or Donald Trump. Then low and behold what do I find on my bed. A massive bed bug!!!! I kid you not. I had just travelled around the world, slept in over 30 different lodgings and the first bed bug experience I had was just after I had taken the mick out of a bed bug killing suitcase on the subway. How ironic. So just as I had overcome one bug battle I was beginning another. I'm not a celebrity, get me the hell out of here!!!!!



Lucky for me I developed a love affair with New York City many years before I stayed in the Thomas Family B&B. Had this been my first time to the city I think my experience would have been slightly different. The owners were nice people. It's just a shame they didn't give housework the attention they seem to have given their garden. "If you want to write me a little review on Tripadvisor...?" said the landlady just before I left. Well if I consider the price, to quote Whitney... it's not right but it's ok.

A background story

I love hotels. Whenever I come back from holiday somewhere the first thing I would mention would be the hotel I stayed in. Whenever anybody tells me they're going on holiday, the first question I ask is where they are staying? Whenever I send a postcard or email, I normally give a hotel report than the standard weather report. My specialist subject on Mastermind would be Tripadvisor's Top 100 hotels in Prague or New York. Actually, I could probably stretch to Top 200 in New York.

Recently I've come to realise that my enjoyment of a city is heavily dependent on the place where I'm sleeping. I've not been too kind on my analysis of Brisbane, Australia since I spent a week in a grimy guesthouse there a few months ago. I found the gecko's who walked around the living room to be a pretty cool feature but waking up to a trail of ants walking along my bed one morning was a bit too 'I'm a Celebrity...' for my liking. I was quite grateful that the kitchen was layered with an inch of grease and grime on every pot, pan and potato as it forced me to venture out for meals and meet new people. Not knowing what I would come back to other than paper thin walls and visible bacteria put a bit of a dampener on my Brisbane experience. Had I stayed in a clean hotel with clean sheets and air conditioning, where I could just go back there in the evening and chill, I'm sure I would have liked the city. It works the other way around too. Staying in the right accommodation can contribute to my love of an area. Hold on to your hats for a future post about my first love and all time favourite hotel, Hotel QT, New York City. It may not exist anymore but it's still worth a mention. After all, it's not every day you get to crash a Kelly Clarkson aftershow party.

From when I was a baby to up until about 18yrs old I have travelled through Europe with my family to spend the summers in the Czech Republic and Czechoslovakia as it formally was. I've stayed in countless towns and cities along the way and seen many historical sights. It's quite funny, oh ok weird, that I remember the places we've visited because of our chosen hotels. I've been to Koln, Germany about ten times but if you ask me about it i'd only be able to tell you about the Novotel we always stayed in. It was one of my favourite hotels actually (and henceforth a much loved city). It had a swimming pool, a gym and a ping pong table. All the ingredients for a pleasurable stay don't you think. Had it not have been for a case of projectile vomiting (both ends) brought on by food poisoning, i'd still be a frequent visitor. I'm sure there's a blog out there by the poor maid who had to clean that room. But still, I love that city. I have come to hold my favourite German city, Wiesbaden in the same regard for practically the same reason. It's not the architecture or culture that makes this my favourite city. Oh no. It's because of the Crown Plaza. As I recall it had an extravagant marble floor.

So as you may have guessed, I'm a bit weird. I've just returned from a journey around the world where I've stayed in countless properties that have given me countless anecdotes for my otherwise boring email/facebook updates. This is my blog sharing the mundane, quirky and horrific lodgings I've frequented past, present and future. I hope you enjoy...