Bates Motel

We had a lot of miles to cover so right after breakfast we piled in the van and turned east.  Not wanting a repeat of last night, when our lodging situation had turned somewhat desperate, I started looking for a place as soon as we knew where we would be stopping for the day.  After my now-familiar routine of internet searches, reading customer reviews, checking prices and looking at photos, I found a place near, but not in, Chicago.

The Manor had great reviews.  All except one.  I’ve learned over time that when there is only one negative review and it’s so over-the-top bad, it’s probably just a nasty customer trying to get some payback for an imagined injustice, so I didn’t let it worry me.  The positive reviews said The Manor had been renovated and the state governor had stayed there.  There were even rumors that Van Halen had spent time enjoying the unique and wonderful atmosphere they offered their guests.

I called and spoke to Justin whose phone presence was lovely.  He laughed when I asked if it was true that Van Halen had stayed there.  “How do these rumors start?” he said, his modesty reaching me through the phone.

I said I’d read an article on the renovations.  “That must have been my Dad.” He told me. When I told him I’d read some great reviews he said, “We can’t please everyone but we try.”

We pulled up around 6pm.  The old car by the front with two flat tires should have been the first clue.  Wade and Paul went to the lobby while Barbara and I waited in the van.  Neither of us had noticed the aforementioned dilapidated vehicle.  When the guys got back we unloaded the suitcases and headed to our rooms.

The glass entry doors looked like they had never met a bottle of Windex.  Maybe the multitudes of happy guests who stayed last night left all the prints, I thought feeling a nervous twinge.  Behind those doors a cloud of smells assaulted me.  Stale cigar smoke mixed with ancient and fresh cigarette smoke left an almost visible odor.  Justin had assured me the upstairs where our rooms were located were non-smoking so I knew all would be well when we were through the lobby and up the stairs.

Looking at the gold, olive, and yellow striped wall-paper that was most certainly put up in the 70s, and ugly when it was new, I decided the downstairs was not only smoking territory but had been bypassed in the Great Renovation I’d read about.  We trundled our luggage up the steps, trying to ignore the hideous and worn carpet.  The doors looked like shiny wood-grain Formica.  I didn’t know anything like Formica-covered entry doors exist but I’m here to bear witness, they do.  At least the lock was fairly modern, opening with a key-card.

We walked into more green, gold, and olive décor.  Well, décor is too positive an implication to describe what we saw.  Bedspreads in night-mare prints of blues and browns (clashing with all the other colors in the room) covered two slightly sagging beds.  I tentatively lifted the bedding to inspect the mattress per my daughter’s instructions before we began our journey.  (She has educated herself on bed bug detection methods to be used during her own travels.) Both mattress and box springs were firmly encased in zippered plastic sheaths.  To cover what, I shuddered to contemplate.

Our room had a door leading to an adjoining room. . . all the edges of which were firmly sealed with grey duct tape.  I. Kid. You. Not.  An unpleasant smell permeated the air. I turned on the wall lights between the beds but nothing happened.  After trying wall switches to no avail I jiggled the cord leading into the wall outlet.   With a disturbing electrical-static-popping sound, the lights came on.

The imitation brass fixtures were covered with grime.  Kind of like a greasy kitchen hood that hasn’t been cleaned in too long.  The sofa would remain un-sat-upon, at least by me.

“Let’s check the bathroom,” Paul, the stout of heart, said.

My first impression was that it was much better than the bedroom.  Bright blue and white, none of that nasty brownish gold and olive.  Paul opened one of the slivers of hotel soap which crumbled in his hand.  He opened the second one.  Same thing.  The sink  was unremarkable but the cabinet that housed it was fronted with with, yes, Formica, and had swollen at its top, waterlogged and most assuredly teaming with the bacteria of a host of former guests.  Probably the governor and Van Halen's too.

“I’m so sorry!” I told the others.  “It sounded so good on-line!”

“It’s okay,” they all tried to reassure me.  “We’ll be fine!”

When Wade saw the look on my face he suggested we check ourselves out and find another place.  “It’s our last night in a hotel for this trip,” he said.  “We don’t want you to have a bad experience at the end of our trip.  Let’s go downtown and splurge on a really nice place.”  I looked past him down the hall and wondered how easy it would be to score some crack in the middle of the night.  Probably be pretty easy in broad daylight, actually, I decided. 

“We can’t,” I groaned.  Everything else is booked by now. 

“Then we can drive down the road until we find something.”

I felt like a spoiled baby.  I mean people are starving to death in other countries.  People are actually suffering, for real, and I can’t stay in a motel with ugly bedspreads?!! 

“I’ll be fine.” I insisted.  So the guys left to wash the van.

I pulled out my laptop and put it on the Formica desktop.  Formica plays a big part in this place.  I have nothing against Formica but this stuff was shiny, faded, brown, old, and altogether the ugliest stuff that ever covered a surface.  Dirt and grime were everywhere and I brushed it away with my hand.  The gold table lamp beside my laptop was covered with fingerprints.  My eyes caught the microwave in my side vision.  Layers of dust extended out the sides, kind of like under a refrigerator that hasn’t been moved in months.

I snapped. That little microwave was the last straw.  Even missionaries in the foreign field didn’t have to face crud under the microwave.  I called Paul and told him I just can’t do it.  I told him to come back after they wash the van and I’ll work on finding another place to stay.  And I tried but the promised high speed internet wouldn’t connect.  BIG SURPRISE.

Paul and Wade were back in less than five minutes, van unwashed.  The man behind the counter gave them their money back without argument or surprise.  All three of my travel companions expressed their own relief to be away from that place post-haste.

My only regret is that I took no pictures.  There is no way to prove the truth of my saga, other than my word.  And the word of my fellow-travelers.

Back on the road again, and feeling like I had been given a new lease on life, I was back on the phone.  It seemed all of Chicago was filled to the brim.  A dragster racing event had drawn visitors to the area from parts abroad.  As we drove further from the city and without any success in our search we learned a concert involving a rapper I’d never heard of was bringing in people by the score.  An hour further I was told there was no vacancy due to a “big reunion.”  This hit my funny bone for some reason.

“Help me Jesus!” I half pled, half whined.  I opened yet another search for yet another town along our route, further into Indiana whose line we had recently crossed.  The first hotel that showed up was a Best Western.  I thought why not? And hit enter.  They had two king-bed rooms left.  I took them both.

That hotel was the nicest Best Western I’d ever been in.  It was right up there with the Hilton Garden Inn in Denver. A courtyard surrounded by four floors of rooms overlooked the indoor putt-putt course, corn hole, shuffle board, swimming pool, tables for two and more. Unique in its décor, a killer restaurant with amazing prime rib, friendly and helpful staff, odor free rooms, down pillows, and yes, beautiful white fluffy bedspreads.  I was up until after 1am, reveling in the Amazing Escape I’d just experienced.

Thank-you Jesus!  Do I hear an AMEN.