The Shittiest Hotel in the World

After having lived in London for most of my 20s, part of me always wanted to move back there. With that aim, I moved my son over with me at a certain point in his childhood. The plan was for us to settle there, so we could live there as a family in the long run. However, a multitude of things became intractable, and we ended up only staying about a year. The disappointment was sharp. After returning to California, I spent the next five years or so stubbornly flying to the UK as often as possible to visit.

For most of the trips, it was better to stay at a hotel in Paddington after the long flight from SFO, followed by the Heathrow Express. It was just too grueling to go any further in one go. A few times I managed the tube to Aldgate East to stay in the Qbic hotel. The tube was manageable, just the circle line, no changes. Back then Qbic was groundbreaking, cheap, and very close to one of my friends. Staying there was a fortuitous overlap our histories, as fairly soon after that they became off-puttingly popular and expensive. On later visits I’d head down to Hastings/St. Leonard’s to stay with another friend, so the layover in London was essential.

Over the years, money got tighter and tighter, and the hotels got shittier and shittier. The miniscule but nice hotel with a lift I started with was replaced by a series of shabbier choices. My personal low point was Shakespeare’s Hotel. I had always seen the name, because I searched by lowest price on Bookings dot com. But somehow, I just thought the cheapest possible hotel might not be the best choice, so I opted for a listing or two higher.  Until the day came that I booked it.

The writing was on the wall the minute I got into the lobby. Everything was greyish and drab. There was a narrow path to the front desk, but otherwise the entire surface area was two deep in suitcases. Overseeing them all, in a prominent position in an armchair, was a heavyset older woman. I would soon learn exactly how this situation arose.

At the front desk, I was given a room on the third floor (fourth to Americans), and informed that there was no lift, and no staff to help with luggage. I insisted on another room, which was rather grand of me, given the setting. The man informed me that the only other room was in the basement. They way he said this indicated that he did not recommend that at all. I recognized that, but feeling truculent, I accepted the basement room. The staircases were set off from the main hallway by heavy glass fire doors that didn’t swing very well, making the journey to the room annoying and difficult.

My next negative impression was the sight of a young man peering his face around his door as I descended into the basement. Seeing that I was not the colleague he expected, he pulled his face back in. There didn’t appear to be anything wrong with him, I just did not need to have a visual on the person on the other side of a thin wall, in an isolated area where I would be sleeping.

The room was bare and dingy. The tiny shower stall was functional but showed unfinished building materials. Upon close inspection, I concluded it was clean enough to use. The sheets on the bed seemed to be, technically, clean enough to sleep on. But in every other respect, I was terrified to touch anything. The television couldn’t receive a picture, but I could listen to the sound portion of a nature show on BBC2. The window looked out onto a square shaft, where sound reverberated such that you could hear every urination and toilet flush from the rooms around it. The net curtains were grey with soot.

After depositing my suitcase, I dashed back out for a meal and some air. Afterwards, as I walked around the corner back to the hotel, I started getting more and more upset. I felt that to have to go back to a room that hideous, was unfair. It felt like abuse. I was a person who tried to be decent. I tried not to be mean, even if I was not oozing with affection. I no longer hated myself. I no longer lacked the will to live, as I had at dark times in the past. I was actually on my own side now. Why would I punish myself with a room so vile, the thought of it brought me to tears?

The revelation was great. It was a turning point of how I saw myself, and how I was going to treat myself from now on. The money saved staying in that hotel was a very small amount, even for someone on my tight budget at the time. My value was so much more than that tiny sum. I was the person who showed the world how I should be treated. If I did not care for myself with respect and affection, it would be ludicrous to expect that behavior from others.

I did manage to sleep that night, gingerly touching only what was absolutely necessary. It felt good to know that I deserved a little bit better than that.