When you live out of a suitcase, as I've spent many years doing, mostly on business travel, you still need somewhere to unload, kick back and relax. Somewhere to eat, drink, watch a bit of sport on tv and catch up with what's going on in the world via the Beeb, CNN or your news provider of choice. Who knows, you might even end up cranking up the old laptop and doing a bit of work sometimes (in between bouts of idle netsurfing).
Sometimes, depending on how deep the client's pockets are and how long you'll be in town, this could be an apartment of variable quality (airbnb has contributed to the growth of that particular option) but more often than not it means a hotel, of equally variable quality. This little trip down Memory Lane covers three decent hotels I would have no problem booking into again tomorrow, two horrors that I would avoid like the plague, and one that remains a bad dream.....trust me: the place was real, the experience was real too and haunts me to this day.
So without further ado......
The first hotel I stayed in:
Back in I think 1973, my mates and I decided to go abroad for a holiday. The package deal was just finding its feet in England, so rather than a couple of weeks at Butlin's Minehead or a caravan somewhere on the south coast, where the sun was never guaranteed, we decided to push the boat out and head for warmer climes. We spent several hours in our local pub perusing various tour brochures and finally settled on the Hotel Condesa de la Bahia, in Alcudia, Majorca - as much as anything because of the name. The hotel looked pretty good in the brochure as well.
We were not disappointed. It was a big hotel, right on this lovely sandy beach running into a warm blue sea - not a bit like Butlin's. It was also brand new - from memory, some of the communal rooms were only opening that week and there were still traces of wrapping foil on the end of some of the dining room chairs. We had two adjoining twin rooms that had comfortable beds, ample storage and a couple of Habitat armchairs, and a decent enough bathroom. Their balconies, quite sheltered with no overlook, had a super view out over the sea, clear across the bay that stretched away northward to its far extremity at the cape of Les Pedreres beyond Porto de Pollensa and the resort of Formentor.
There was no tv, but that didn't matter because none of us spoke Spanish anyway. The bars were good, the beer cheap and strong, as were the jugs of sangria, so we were guaranteed a hangover every morning. There were a couple of decent swimming pools, but we didn't use them much - not a lot of point with the beach and the warm Mediterranean about 25 paces from the pool bar. Sunbeds and umbrellas were provided at no cost, and we could rent orange pedallo boats - which we did a couple of times, aiming optimistically (and wholly unsuccessfully) for Formentor. The food was also good, all meals provided in the package, and none of us had the stomach problems we had been warned about. They even did packed lunches if you asked for them, for instance if you went on an excursion somewhere (we did that too).
We had a terrific holiday. I got badly sunburned because I used oil rather than sunscreen so essentially deep-fried myself, I rode a horse for the first time in my life and duly fell off, much to everyone's amusement. We teamed up with a few girls from Stoke-on-Trent a couple of times but predictably I was too tongue tied and drunk to get anywhere. I was thus the odd one out in our gang. It was great.
I've stayed in a number of holiday hotels since then, and always find myself comparing them with the Condesa, and generally the Condesa has seemed the better (even when it patently wasn't).....tricks of memory I guess, after 50 years and more. When I was planning this piece I googled it, half expecting the place to be no more, or at least re-named. But nope, it's still there looking exactly the same as it did back then. Perhaps I'll take my family there one day. I think I would enjoy that.
The really nice business hotel:
About 15 years or so ago, I made my one and only trip to "proper" Africa (I tend to discount a couple of trips to Egypt: the country never seems really African - which is tosh, of course). My company sent me to Nairobi in Kenya for three weeks to do a piece of work that they hoped would lead to a bigger project. I did my review at the bank, wrote up the proposal, got it approved and costed by my company and passed it along to the bank to negotiate. I never heard anything more and have no idea whether the project happened or not. But the trip was fun anyway.
For cost reasons, the company booked my flights via Brussels on the Belgian national airline, presumably as it was cheaper than Lufthansa or BA or even Kenya Airlines, and it was not the most comfortable journey I've ever had either way. The ride into town on the hotel courtesy bus was interesting too, in that instead of the usual highly polished Mercedes or Ford Transit mini-bus it was a beaten up old Toyota Hi-Lux mini-bus with one broken headlight and in desperate need of a valet service. Given that my hotel was highly recommended by my colleagues and apparently Five Star, I was a tad concerned.
I needn't have worried. The Stanley Hotel, when I arrived, sits smack in the middle of Nairobi, an impressive colonial style building with pillars and floodlights everywhere. A smiling doorman with epaulettes and a peaked cap welcomed me, and pointed out the Reception Desk across a very plush carpeted foyer. For once, my trolley bag didn't rattle as I strolled across to it, admiring the potted plants, leather sofas and armchairs and tastefully lit bar areas. Nice.
My room was on I think the 4th (or maybe 5th?) floor, and was very nice indeed - certainly one of the better places I'd stayed up to that point. My company was never one for spending too much on accommodation for us consultants, we grunts, although the Sales and Management of course were decidedly up market, so the Stanley made a very pleasant change. The bed was big and comfortable, there was a leather couch and separate armchair bracketing a polished coffee table. and a work-desk with free wifi connection next to the window that overlooked a busy street market that seemed to be operating 24/7. But the double glazing was very good and kept out the worst of the noise. There was also a big screen tv that amongst its stations offered a South African cable channel providing live English Premier League football coverage - taken direct from Sky, with Richard Keyes and Andy Grey running the show (this was before they were fired for some fairly dumb-arsed sexist comments).
After work the next day, I explored a bit more - I had arrived after midnight - and the hotel was very nice indeed. The food in the dining rooms was very good, and the Full English breakfast particularly pleasant. There were a couple of decent bars, one showing the sport and the other a piano bar with live music. On the 5th floor, by the inevitable fitness centre, there was a good sized open terrace with a bar that served decent beer and very filling burgers and club sandwiches and fries. Oh, and a good sized floodlit and heated open-air swimming pool. I hadn't packed my cossie so never used the pool (I prefer the sea in any case) but there were a number of very decorative bikini clad fillies using it most evenings - I thought at first they were working girls, but saw a number of them in reception at various times in business suits and lugging laptops, so perhaps not.
I was in the hotel for three weeks and saw no reason to go far. At that time the city was not considered too safe - the bank people advised me not to stray too far because as a white European I would be considered wealthy and hence an easy target - so I saw very little of the place. I had a car provided to and from work, and simply hunkered down and enjoyed the hotel: it was not difficult.
Google tells me it's now re-named The Sarova Stanley Hotel, was founded in 1902 and has several ballrooms, lounges and conference rooms named after famous guests including Sir Winston Churchill and Ernest Hemingway. They clearly had excellent taste, like me. I don't suppose for a second I'll ever get back to Kenya, but if my numbers come up on the next Euromillions lottery, the Stanley can expect another visit.
The most luxurious one:
Doha and Qatar wormed their way into my consciousness back in 2010, when their football association dished out a large number of brown envelopes stuffed full of petrodollars (or so it is rumoured....) to various FIFA voting member delegates and the organisation's head honcho Sepp Blatter (who allegedly received the biggest of the lot) and was thus awarded the 2022 World Cup in return. Since England had also bid for it I was mildly pissed off. I never expected the place would become part of my travel itinerary, but in 2013 I landed a 6 month contract to work there. With mixed feelings, I hopped on my Qatar Airways A320-200 and on a cool September day headed off to Doha.
I got there close to midnight and jumped a cab to my hotel - The Wyndham Grand Regency Hotel. It is as opulent as it sounds - and ridiculously expensive too: but my bank client had exceedingly deep pockets. A group of doormen had a race to help me carry my bags and escorted me to an individual Check In desk, where I was upgraded to an Executive Suite. Well, well, that made a change. My doorman took me to the room, and gave me a guided tour - and very nice it was too. A big lounge area, with a massive flat screen tv under which a cupboard held the coffee maker and minibar, and a very large and comfortable settee to sprawl out on while watching tv. And a work-desk with internet connectivity, cabled and free. Separate bedroom with a huge canopied four-poster bed I could get lost in. Plus loads of wardrobe space and drawers. The bathroom next door was about the size of my bedroom back home (still smaller than both my lounge area and bedroom here though....) with a big bath, double sinks and a massive shower stall with a shower head the size of an open laptop that nearly drowned me. I simply cannot find fault with it, then or now.
The rest of the hotel was equally luxurious. All the carpets were plush deep pile that made even those in the Stanley Nairobi look threadbare, and there were heavy curtains all over the place. Lots of gold leaf on the light fittings - might even have been real gold - and polished to a shine. It was all typically Arabic: I had seen similar in Abu Dhabi hotels, only this was even better. In the Reception Area, by the main door, sat the most beautiful vintage sports car, in mint condition: red and cream paintwork, light tan leather upholstery and soft top, and dripping with highly polished chrome fittings you could see your face in. No idea what make it was, but no doubt worth half a million bucks. Some decoration, that. The top floor dining room provided superb food all day - the breakfasts were delicious, but in the evenings I generally ate in my room watching tv and munching exceptionally fine room service food. There was a good gym and a small indoor pool, both of which I used infrequently.
The tv had a good channel selection, many of the channels run by the local al-Jazeera satellite service. Their English language news channel was very good and in my view provided a more balanced view than CNN - I still watch it sometimes at home. There was also al-Jazeera Sport, that showed English Premier League football, hosted by.......Richard Keyes and Andy Grey. Unchanged from their Sky tv dismissal, as irreverent and sexist as ever, but with better sun tans - clearly the climate in Qatar suits them better than that in Middlesex. Pundits like Graeme Souness and Kevin Keegan turned up, and the commentary teams were those used by Sky.......so it was very watchable and for me free. Excellent.
I had a good few weeks there, and enjoyed it very much. It remains the nicest hotel I've ever used, and I'd go back like a shot. But all good things come to an end, as did the contents of my client's deep pocket, because after about 6 weeks my colleagues and I were moved on - not to the promised apartment, but to a hotel just around the corner, and still within walking distance of the bank. The contrast could not have been starker......
The hotel still under construction:
We stood in Reception, and wondered exactly what we had done to upset the client. Gone were the plush carpets and curtains and doormen and vintage sports car and artwork on the wall. Instead, we were in a bare space, tiled floor, walls painted a sort of pale yellow matt, with a single check in clerk who did not appear that keen on serving us. This was the Le Park Hotel: I googled it and judging by the pictures on their website it looks ok now although appearances can be deceptive, especially on the internet. But when we stayed there - well.....
The check in took an eternity, and then a grubby lift transported me to the fifth floor and my room. No porter to help with my bags and show me the way and give me a guided tour of the room. This was more the sort of place I was used to! I stepped out of the lift, and along the corridor where the rooms were, I noticed half a dozen refuse sacks outside some of the doors. That did not look right. And.....but hang on: let me save time - here is the link to a review I posted on Tripadvisor at the time, detailing a long and unbelievable list of faults and problems - all of which are true. There are photos, too.
https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/ShowUserReviews-g294009-d1017150-r182307625-Le_Park_Hotel-Doha.html
Suffice to say we only stayed a week or two, until the end of that particular trip, and then moved back into the Wyndham - it was that or we would all have refused to return to Doha. I note also that the last review of the place, dated December 2019 - a full six years after our stay - shows that not a single thing has changed. Of 19 published reviews, no less than 15 rated it Terrible (with 2 Poor and 2 a very generous Average). It truly is the Hotel From Hell. Avoid it.
The downmarket hotel in Geneva.
For work visits to my old employer's head office in Switzerland, we grunts were always put up in a small hotel close to a number of hospitals, including the romantic sounding Dermatologie et vénéréologie.......... It was a typical grunt hotel: which is to say not very good. I will not give the name this time, because while generally poor, and not one I would consider using on a personal level, it had some things to commend it, and was certainly in a different league than my Doha Hotel From Hell.
The location may have been ok if you thought you may have developed an unpleasant skin condition, but beyond that there was (is) little to recommend it. Since the place only does breakfast, restaurants are your only evening meal option, and in that particular quarter they were few and far between, and tended to open late (say 7:00 p.m.) and close early (say 10:00 p.m. if you were lucky). In fairness, that may not be the case now - Google Maps shows a few places within walking distance that weren't in evidence the last time I visited.
But what cannot have changed much is the hotel itself. It's small. It's dark and dingy (unless the lighting has since been upgraded). The basement breakfast room - the only meal provided - is small and seats no more than a dozen people, and provides limited fare. The rooms were adequate - at least the ones I used: perhaps I got the better ones - , big bed (often too soft), plenty of pillows (always either too soft or too firm, never a mix), a coffee table and usually an uncomfortable settee or armchair. Limited channel selection on the tv. You can get by, if you're not too choosy. At least the internet always worked ok.
But the bathrooms were invariably small, as if a corner of the room had simply been partitioned off, and featured a very small shower cubicle, a big old toilet that made getting in and out of the shower sometimes tricky, and a big old sink to shave in that usually did not have a plug. If you were average sized and careful you could get away with it. A colleague of mine was not so lucky: a big lad, he actually got stuck in his shower stall and, unable to get out any other way and with no phone within reach to call for assistance, had to essentially destroy the thing to get out. The hotel duly moved him to another room and billed him for the damage. He passed the bill on to the company to pay and refused to stay there again. Can't say I blame him.
Thankfully, I had no issues like that, and indeed got to know the staff quite well, as I worked in the city on and off for a number of years. They were always very friendly, and I often found bowls of fresh fruit left in my room when I checked in and sometimes after work. So it wasn't all bad.
The German Nightmare:
To finish let me recount an experience I had many years ago, in another work existence, that remains the single worst accommodation experience I've ever had. I shiver whenever I think of it. At the time I was working for the London office of a small German regional bank, and after some re-organisations at work found myself promoted to a newly created back office management position. My boss, in his infinite wisdom, thought it would be a good idea to send me to the head office in Frankfurt am Main to meet-and-greet my counterpart there and the other people I would be interacting with. Good idea, says I: when should I go? Wednesday, he said (today was Monday), your flight is booked. Speak to XXXX (my German counterpart) to book your hotel.
So I called XXXX. He was pleased to hear I was travelling but surprised it was so soon and could foresee problems. It turned out that the day after I was due to arrive, the Frankfurt Book Fair, one of the biggest in Europe, was starting so finding a hotel might be difficult - but he was sure it would be ok. We spoke again the next day, just before he left the office, and he was still trying to find a room - but don't worry - I will find one. It was too late to change (and in any case XXXX's boss was looking forward to spending Friday with me as she was going on holiday for a couple of weeks that weekend), so with some trepidation off I went after work Wednesday.
XXXX met me at the airport and we piled into his beaten up old VW Polo and zoomed off. He had found me a place, outside Frankfurt, close to where he lived. The drive there was terrifying: it was dark and pouring with rain, and XXXX drove like a lunatic. After one slide, I asked him if he always drove like this. "Of course," he said, with a big grin. "There are no speed limits here in Germany so we have the right to drive as fast we like. So I do." I closed my eyes and prayed.
He lived in a small town called Schwalbach am Taunus, about 11km outside of Frankfurt, so it took very little time to get there and we soon pulled up outside a dimly lit guesthouse somewhere close to the local S3 train station. I have no memory of what the place was called, nor precisely whereabout in the town it was: it's not on Google Maps now, so with luck it's closed. XXXX told me he would pick me up at 8 in the morning, and zoomed off, leaving me to find my way in.
It was the absolute pits. There was a dining room cum bar, deserted at this time of night, and a surly fat German checked me in. His grasp of English was as rudimentary as mine of German, but we managed. He gave me my key, pointed to a flight of stairs just inside the door and held up three fingers: no lift, third floor. I trudged upstairs, passing dimly lit corridors on each floor. At least I was on the top floor. Its corridor was equally dingy, but I found my room and let myself in.
The light inside was a fluorescent strip light and illuminated a room like a cell. There was a cheap and nasty plywood single bed with a thin mattress, one pillow and a summer quilt - at least they looked clean. There was a chest with three drawers and next to it a clothes rail - no wardrobe, but at least a couple wire hangers. Next to the bed stood a small plywood cupboard on which was a small lamp and an old Phillips digital alarm clock/radio. With no tv, that was my entertainment for the week (bear in mind this was before the advent of laptops, and I had left my Sony Discman at home). Of toilet and shower there was no sign, nor an in-room phone. Swearing, I trudged downstairs again and enquired of my surly fat German where it was: I had to draw a door with WC written on it to make him understand.
"Ach!" he said. He then drew two lines with 5 openings off one, and at the end another opening straddling the two lines. He pointed to the second opening and pointed to me - my room. Then he pointed to the opening at the end, and at my WC. I frowned, but thought I guessed his meaning. I pointed to the WC and back to my room. He laughed, then pointed to each room then the WC - shared between all on the floor. With a sinking feeling, I went back upstirs, located the door - sure enough, it had WC painted on it - and opened it. My Christ, it stunk. One toilet, recently used, and one shower stall with a stained plastic curtain. Shared between half a dozen rooms.
I went to bed, feeling angry and I confess a little frightened. In the morning, I didn't bother with a shower, but dressed and went down to breakfast. The dining room was full, no seats free, and was thick with tobacco smoke and stale sweat. Everyone in the place stopped what they were doing and looked at me for a moment, then continued jabbering away in something that wasn't German. I picked up a stale croissant and waited outside in the rain for XXXX to pick me up.
The place turned out to be a kind of dormitory that was being used exclusively by a group itinerant, probably illegal, Turkish construction workers. It was all XXXX had been able to find. He hadn't inspected the place and was distressed to find it that bad, and apologised profusely......not that it made me feel any better. At work, we spoke to his boss and agreed that I should change my ticket and go home and re-arrange the trip for later, but it turned out the earliest I could fly back was Tuesday - so I was stuck there at least until then. I had no choice.
It was the most miserable trip I have ever had in my life. I braved the shower room and WC a couple of times, making sure as best I could the place hadn't been used - the Turks were probably really nice guys and only trying to earn a few quid, but their personal hygiene left something to be desired. The clock/radio had awful tinny sound from its single speaker and the only station I could pick up clearly was an American Forces Network one: to be fair, the music it played was pretty good. The weather was awful, chilly and damp, and I spent most of the weekend wandering like a lost soul around Frankfurt trying to avoid a very ugly girl from the office who had taken a shine to me, lived in Schwalbach and knew where I was staying - in that at least I succeeded.
I hopped out to the Waldstadion (now the Commerzbank Arena) and watched Eintracht Frankfurt draw 2-2 with St.Pauli (Hamburg) - it was a good game and an interesting experience. Especially the bit where about 150 St.Pauli fans accompanied by armed police and slavering rottweilers piled into my train carriage at the Hauptbahnhof - I found myself pinned into a corner, surrounded by all these hulking great drunk German football hooligans singing "You'll Never Walk Alone" in fractured English Surreal. That was Saturday, and Sunday was worse: I went into Frankfurt again but everything was closed and it was even colder and wetter than the previous day. I stuck it out until lunchtime, then headed back to the hostel with some snacks and beer bought at the main station, and spent the rest of the day listening to the American Forces Network and trying to get drunk.
I have never been so happy to check out of a place in my life!
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