Day 24/Indie Travel Art Project: Tell us a story set around the worst accommodations you’ve ever stayed in.
Note that while the story below is true, the hotel that the story is about is under new ownership and has been completely renovated.
The band of disheveled ventriloquists camped out rehearsing on the neighboring stoop should have been an indicator. I ignored this sign and entered the lobby anyway.
The concierge, Jimmy, had a Transylvanian accent, made more ominous by his thick glasses and confounding hairstyle featuring a brown wig topped with a black toupee. He was being paid in one hundred $1-bills by a handsome young man in a white eyelet lace pantsuit, black eyeliner and blue nail polish. It was New York City, 1995 on 51st Street between 8th and 9th Ave. The Hotel Washington-Jefferson. Also known as the Hotel Wilmington-Jorgenson with the undercover types.
I asked the weekly rate at this Times Square throwback. “Vun hundrrrrrred dollars for vun veek.” Hiding my delight, I asked the price of the junior suite. “Two hundrrrrrred dollars for vun veek.” Done and done.
The junior suite at the Wilmington-Jorgenson was on the second floor of seven, directly across 51st Street from a blinking cross that said “Sin Will Find You Out” and “Get Right with God.” There was a skitter as I turned on the lights, but the aqua walls and quilted naugahyde furniture made me forget all that immediately. This was prime NYC real estate for budget-minded recent-grads. Still, I wondered, why do the walls seem to be oozing brown gunk?
Over-joyed with my vintage-hotel find, I arranged a soiree at the Russian Tea Room. I could afford it now!
I returned to the WJ later that evening after a detour to the Rainbow Room. Upon entering, I noticed the walls had oozed a bit more and saw that the maid had come by to bring some fresh towels and a few wrapped rectangles of Cashmere Bouquet. Ignoring the “wall issue” and marveling at my detailed cleaning staff, I went to throw open the curtains to reflect on the day’s triumphs, but was stopped by a what seemed to be a new rug on the floor in front of the quilted naugahyde couch. That rug had not been there before. The maid must have brought it. But why?
As I gingerly touched corner of the rug, I asked myself if I should have a witness in the room before uncovering this mystery. But my curiosity got the best of me and I yanked up the corner, now staring at a big red stain in the carpet. That stain wasn’t there when I arrived.
Recoiling, I climbed out the windows and onto the fire escape. What had happened in there? What was that substance? Was it the maid? Was it the concierge? Was it someone else? Was this hotel possessed? Was the stain related to the “wall issue”? The laughter of the ventriloquists caught my attention, prompting my mind to retrace the day’s steps.
It was my inkwell of red ink. I must not have closed the cap after writing Grandma her postcard and the maid spilled it while dusting. Yes, there it was, tossed in the quilted naugahyde garbage can under the quilted naugahyde table.
That was Day 1 of many, and it still didn’t explain the “wall issue.”