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Published: August 6th 2007
By the time we reached Perth, we had come to associate Qantas Airlines with hard landings and this one was no different. Surprised that the aircraft had not disintegrated on touchdown, Gina and I exchanged a sigh of relief and began collecting our bags. Since it was now almost three in the afternoon, we hurried to the Avis counter hoping to salvage some daylight. Instead, we were greeted by a sign reading: “We are experiencing computer issues and apologize for the delay.” An hour passed before we received our car.
Exhausted by our travels, we navigated towards the lodging I had booked using Wotif.com. During the early part of our stay in Australia, someone had mentioned the Expedia-like site that advertises bargain basement deals for hotels. Having found minor success in its use while in Queensland, we decided to consult it for our stay in Western Australia. Regrettably, we waited until the day of our arrival in Perth, expecting a glut of options. However, unbeknownst to us, there is a major mining boom in Western Australia and Perth hotels are experiencing extremely low vacancy rates. A handful of hotels out of one hundred had availability - the choice between $85 per night and $350 came as a no-brainer.
As the buildings lining the road became dodgier, Gina joked that it looked like we were driving through South Central. I flashed a smile and asked her what she expected for $85. Pulling into the parking lot of the dilapidated Metro Hotel moments later, I once again acknowledged
you get what you pay for. Now almost 5 P.M., the last thing we wanted was a hassle. We approached the reception counter and I sensed irritability on the face of the man behind it. “One of those days?” I teased, hoping to lighten the mood.
“Since I came on today,” he replied through a forced smile.
We empathized and told the guy that we were checking in for the night. After asking our surname, he began frantically clicking away at the computer terminal. Looking up with an eyebrow raised, he inquired, “When did you make this reservation?”
“This morning on Wotif,” I answered.
He turned and started shuffling through a stack of disorganized loose leaf paper strewn across the counter. Raising his hand in a
Eureka! motion, he turned back and instructed us to complete the check-in documentation. While I penned away, I asked if he had any recommendations for dinner. Having forced down a few pre-made sandwiches at the Ayers Rock airport as our only meal of the day, we were both starving. “Monday night is industry night in Perth, so most things are closed,” he responded as he handed over our room keys. “You’re in room 66; enjoy your stay,” he uttered with a sense of finality.
We boarded the antiquated elevator and rose to the 6th floor. Emerging into the hallway seconds later, we were passed by two slovenly looking women that we quickly identified as maids. They boarded the elevator and disappeared. Dragging our bags past sequentially increasing room numbers, we stopped in front of 66. The door was completely ajar and, from what we could gather without crossing the threshold, Motley Crue had stayed the night before - the room was a mess. Disheartened and definitely pissed, I instructed Gina to wait with our bags while I sorted out the situation with the front desk.
With an ‘
oh no, not you again’ look on his face, the same gentlemen who had assisted me earlier greeted me at reception. “I’m sorry to make your day any more difficult than it has been, but there’s a problem with our room. The door was open when we got there and the inside looked thrashed,” I spat across the counter.
“Are you serious?” he replied, clearly regretting his decision to come to work that day.
He ripped the phone from its cradle and dialed housekeeping. “Why isn’t room 66 clean yet? It’s 5 P.M.. Check-in is at 3 P.M.,” he shouted at the lady on the other end.
Terse conversation ensued. Slamming down the receiver, he apologized profusely and motioned to a woman in an adjacent office. As they took their time collaborating on a solution, I mentioned that my wife was upstairs waiting. The duo signaled a bellman to retrieve Gina and our bags and then started clicking away at the computer. “I think we found a solution,” he offered.
Unamused, I heard him out. “As we have a full house tonight, we’ll put you in the
family room. It’s more of an apartment with a kitchen than a hotel room. Will that be OK?”
Too tired to argue further and knowing that I wasn’t dealing with the Ritz, I accepted the offer. Plus, I figured we might be able to cook since most everything was closed for dinner.
Cackling as she exited the elevator, bellman and baggage in tow, I could only guess at what Gina had gotten herself into. I explained the situation, but before keys were handed over to the
family room, the bellman was instructed to check its cleanliness so not to repeat our ordeal. Gina and I joked about the situation for a few minutes before the bellman returned, clearly embarrassed. “It’s not clean,” he murmured to the pair behind the counter.
Hot under the collar, the man picked up the house phone once again and dialed housekeeping. Clearly wanting to reach through the handset and strangle the person on the other end, he demanded to know why neither room was clean. This time the person countered that our original room, 66, was now clean. Gina confirmed this by explaining that she had stood in the hallway while the maid hastily cleaned the room. Key cards and documents were again exchanged before we ascended to the 6th floor.
As we entered the room, I scrutinized every detail to ensure things were actually clean, half expecting to find a pube in the sheets. Satisfied by the modicum of cleanliness, we deposited our bags and decided to search for something to eat.
We drove about 3 kilometers past a handful of fast food and Chinese restaurants before randomly picking one of the latter to fill our stomachs. Passing through the sliding glass door, we found two pair of inquisitive eyes staring in our direction from behind the counter. Since an Australian woman was seated next to the door, patiently waiting for her takeout order, we assumed the establishment was open and proceeded to ask for a table. “Two for dinner,” Gina said.
Exchanging looks of confusion, the women looked back in our direction. Considering English may not have been their first language, Gina changed her approach while raising her voice, “We’d like a table for two.”
The younger of the two women looked to the other for approval before grabbing two menus and leading us into a dining room. While it was apparent to me that the lights were off, a fading sun still lighting the room, Gina didn’t take notice. A few minutes passed as we scanned the menu for something that would not give us food poisoning before the dining room was brightly illuminated by the overhead lights. Gina began cackling, now realizing the lights had been off. We looked at one another and wondered if the restaurant was supposed to be closed on Mondays like everything else in Perth.
The same woman who seated us returned and, for a laugh, I inquired, “Were we not supposed to eat here tonight?”
Not understanding the joke, she answered in a stern voice, “What you want to eat?”
Caught off guard, Gina and I fumbled through the menu and read off the items we wanted. I watched as the woman serving us didn’t write things down in the expected Asian text, but in picture-perfect 3rd grader English penmanship. Confused, I relayed my observation to Gina once the woman departed.
Moments later, the woman returned with napkins and plates and proceeded to say with a slight bow and hand extended, “Thank you for coming to eat with us.” She then gave my hand a light shake and barely touched Gina’s with a tag-you’re-it motion. Now thoroughly puzzled, we waited for her exit before laughing in a hushed tone.
Our spring rolls came and went, satisfying us both, though not in any sense gastronomical. The main courses arrived a short time later, both chicken-based, with mine sporting a flaming liquid at its center. I watched as Gina pulled a piece of meat from her plate, inserted it into her mouth and immediately spit it out. “Maybe it was just a bad piece?” she offered.
I proceeded to chopstick a piece of my dish into my mouth, obviously from the same chicken stock in the kitchen, and slowly started to chew. As my face contorted, Gina realized it wasn’t just
a bad piece. Too shy to send our dishes back in light of them opening the restaurant for us, we spent the next five or so minutes pushing food around our plates like a couple of 5-year-olds. I piled the remnants of my dish to one side of the serving platter before announcing it was time to cut our loss. We double-timed our way to the counter hoping to pay our bill and leave before they discovered we hadn’t eaten their fare. As the woman politely asked if we enjoyed our meal, Gina jabbed me and motioned towards the open kitchen door. Spotting a dirty bucket of random chicken parts, I feared we would both spend the next day with our butts glued to the toilet.
Good thing we got those hepatitis shots.
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darby
non-member comment
theres a...
martian pube in my perth hotel room. debate the pros and cons.