The photo in the magazine glowed with the kind of luxury reserved for families of wealth, a financial torch passed down for generations with nobody getting burned,
so I made my reservation, two nights, and asked if they offered an AARP discount.
The voice at the other end of the line had a distinct British accent and he asked me to repeat my request.
“AARP discount” I repeated.
He said he’d never heard of such a thing, that it sounded a bit guttural for their hotel, and that maybe I’d prefer one of those new hotel chains with refrigerators and microwaves in every room.
“No, I’ll stick with you” I said and he said “Very well.”
He could have said “Very good” but his language – a sign of breeding – assured me I had made the right choice.
When I arrived no uniformed valet greeted me, which seemed odd. I parked the car and walked into the lobby.
The check-in desk wasn’t really a desk, but an old three drawer dresser beside a wooden stool.
“Very antiquey” I said to the receptionist.
“Pardon me?” she said.
“I was just commenting on the old world elegance of your furnishings.”
She glanced down, shoved a sock back into its drawer.
“I beg your pardon” she said, a twinge of embarrassment flushed in her cheeks. “Do you have any luggage?” .
“I left it in the car” I said.
She reached into another drawer and retrieved an oak paddle which she slammed against the dresser. Immediately a little girl clad in rags emerged from behind a curtained doorway where it appeared she’d been sleeping.
“Get the gentleman’s bags!” the receptionist shouted, as she swatted the girl’s backside with the board.
“No, really, I’ll carry them myself. They’re actually quite heavy” I said.
The little girl glanced back toward her keeper like one of those orphans you see in drawings illustrating a Dickens novel.
“Very well” the woman said and the urchin disappeared behind the curtain.
I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, toting my suitcases. A sign on the elevator read “Out of order” and the creaking stairs reminded me of a Bronte novel, though I can’t say which one, those sisters arranged in my mind like identical hotel room doors.
I located 432 at the end of the hall and as I reached for my key somebody inside the room coughed. I knocked.
“I’m sorry” I said, “I thought this room was mine.”
The same little girl pulled the door wide and ushered me through with a gesture.
I surveyed the room with a sweeping glance while she went back to sweeping the floor.
A wooden palate in the corner with fresh straw spread across it, a bucket turned upside down beside a bigger bucket with a lid, like a crude unsteady table, and a pitcher of water.
I had stepped into another century and my luggage standing in the hall looked so out of place I decided to leave it.
I closed the door. A stench from the street came up through an open window.
If I could survive for two days without festering boils and a fever I’d have to consider this little getaway one of my most memorable.
