This is the final, follow-up post to an earlier one, about how conferences are vacations that aren't. Nw that I'm actually on vacation, I can return to this idea and finish this endeavor, unlike older ideas that still need to be worked up.
Anyway, in the aftermath of the weekend, and the shenanigans associated with our stay at the Iris, in San Diego, the bile was up a little and annoyance was the main feeling, and of course time has softened that up.
The lady at work who did the booking showed me the photos on offer on line of the Hotel Iris. It looked all sorts of modern, and I thought that it looked like something has found in the past in both Seattle and Portland, so I agreed without question. It was a good price to boot.
I wasn't privy to the issues this coworker was having as the weekend approached. They'd lost the reservation; no wait, they had it on the wrong day; no wait, they'd lost the office credit card number; no wait...
In California there aren't access roads next to the freeways like there are in Texas (and other places). But on the stretch of Interstate 8 where the Iris resides there are. As we approached the hotel, some of the history of the area started to tell its story to us silently.
The Hotel Iris sits on the access road named "Hotel Circle". It is a classic, fifties (or earlier) era "motoring hotel", or, motel. Two structures separated by a driving lane and each structure has two levels with room entrances on the outside. It looks old school, and like it was the very first hotel in this area. It is currently surrounded by far newer, far flashier hotels, like the tiny home of the older person who wouldn't sell surrounded by new development.
The photos of the renovation that were online were probably the best looking room. ut I'm getting ahead of myself.
When we arrived, on a Friday night, there was one girl working the counter. There was a line, there were phones ringing off the hook, and the person directly in front of me had a television remote that didn't work.
I heard the girl tell one phone customer that they were full, and that in a few hours they may be able accommodate them after they get a sense of who has not shown up. Another call came in while she was trying to figure out our reservation; it was from in house. It went something like this: "Front desk, how can I help you?" (Darting eyes) "Um, after work?" (Eye roll) "Well, I'll be hanging out with my boyfriend, that's what I'll be doing...Yeah. Thanks anyway."
I chuckled and said, "Really?" She sighed and said, "Every weekend I get asked out by somebody." She was cute and young, and had the punk rocker look with a third of her head shaved and her remaining hair was hot pink.
Apparently the reservation was moved to a dummy room because the card didn't go through. The office card. How is that possible, I thought. They worked it out and got us into a room, eventually. I was never upset with the young lady at the desk--whatever issue there was wasn't her fault.
We could barely get the door open, but when we did the smell of the room was overwhelming. It was like the cigar convention finished up a half-hour before we arrived. It was so bad that every piece of laundry needed to be washed when we got home, but not because of being sweaty.
The room had been updated, but this particular room was haphazardly renovated at best. The paint was poorly applied, the moldings were poorly entered, and the stickers were still on the sink. The faucets at that sink and in the shower were too big and clunky to be really effective. The shower-head had a stream shooting directly perpendicular to the normal flow, and this stream went over the shower-curtain and onto the door and floor.
I emailed the lady at work and updated her to the situation. I used my own card for the room, and figured we could get it figured out later.
When I awoke one morning I saw I had five emails on my phone. They were all angry messages from the lady at work to the hotel management sent between 3 and 4 am. She was fired up. I didn't read them all, I just got ready and went to the conference.
When I checked out on the last day it was an older guy at the desk. He was very apologetic and promised to get to the bottom of what had happened with the reservation. Frankly, I didn't really care. The place stunk, sure, and the roar from the freeway nearly drowned out the television, but that's to be expected when you arrive. I treated it like a learning experience.
The only truly annoying thing was that our next door neighbor's door creaked when it opened, and it sounded like our door was slowly being opened. That wouldn't seem like a real shitty thing until I mention that from 8 pm until I fell asleep at midnight, there was a quiet tapping on the door---like someone using keys---and the door being opened slowly, every ten minutes. For that entire time.
Tap tap tap, creeeeeaaak, muffled dialogue.Tap tap tap, creeeeeaaak, muffled dialogue.Tap tap tap, creeeeeaaak, muffled dialogue.Tap tap tap, creeeeeaaak, muffled dialogue.
I'm convinced they were selling meth.
In the last email I sent to my coworker, I mentioned that the Hotel Iris may not be ideal for people more uptight than me, and that we should decide in the future to go in another direction.
We've definitely stayed in worse conditions, but time is such that we can learn from these experiences and choose differently moving forward.
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