The Hotel – A bedtime story

Nighttime in Hangzhou is filled with neon lights and golden opulence. It’s a little like Walt Disney and Trump threw up together. All weary from a rainy night and bus ride, we anxiously anticipate our hotel and a good nights rest. Kelly has told us AMPLE times that the 5-star hotel in Wuxi was a-special and it was definitely the best on the trip. OK. We got it. What we should have realized was that she was preparing us for what was to come. Well, she failed. I don’t see a universe in which she could have actually succeeded because what was in store for us was a hotel for the storybooks. You know. The actual Grimm’s fairytales in which witches are gassed in ovens and evil step sisters have their toes cut off. We were about to have our $399 tour nightmares come true.

As we approached the hotel, we were immediately at ease. Bright lights. Lobby illuminated in gold. Kelly quickly hops on the bus mic to level set our expectations. Silly Americans. You still haven’t made up for your reviews of Rebecca. That’s not the hotel. That’s the entrance for the spa. We have to walk down the alleyway next to the more modern marvel (in the rain mind you, because there isn’t enough room for the bus to squeeze into the ‘hotel’ entryway) and find the building behind the spa. We reluctantly agreed. Spidey senses immediately up.

A quick story. When I was in sixth grade and we went on our (last) family vacation to Chicago, our brown panel station wagon with the backwards seat in the rear made its way to the AAA selected hotel. The closer we got, the more wig shops and graffitied convenience stores appeared. The car had already lost its air conditioning and the power steering was shot so both my parents were steering at this point. We pulled up to the Travelodge and there it was. Our oasis. As a child of 12, I knew upon seeing the tattered curtains blowing out the room windows that this perhaps wasn’t an optimal choice for this family of 7. Papa Bear mode had long before kicked in for my dad. I don’t even think dad slowed down. He just kept driving. We had unwittingly driven into the heart of Cabrini Green. In the 70s. (For anyone under 35, there was a time when Cabrini Green was not gentrified. It wasn’t always a place of hipsters, pork belly, and craft cocktails. It rivaled Harlem for top places white people shouldn’t go. (For anyone under 35, there was a time when Harlem wasn’t gentrified…) Anyway, my point is that THAT Travelodge would have made Rick Steeves best picks list compared to our Hangzhou paradise.

Whatever. It’s all good. Clare and I had boldly proclaimed “we don’t care if we stay in Motel 6 quality places! This is too good a deal to pass up.” (For the record, it still is too good a deal to pass up.) We are not so entitled and soft (well, physically soft, yes) that we can’t suck it up for a night. We get on to the elevator and immediately notice that carpet had not been steam vac’d like, ever. We start to identify cloud animals in the stains. We exit the 15th floor with a few other bus mates and Clare deadpans, “anybody need a lamp?” There was 10 or 12 lamps haphazardly on the floor outside the elevators. Down the hall we go. As we traverse to the end, there is room after room just open, mattresses standing upright or askew on the bed frames. There’s a box of tools and random wood pieces in the middle of the hallway. Standing ashtrays (operable ones) are every ten feet in the hallway This was no refurbish job. It was just how it is. Must be airing out for the weekend. We laugh uncomfortably and enter the room, contemplating sleeping in every piece of clothing we brought.

We’d been in the bus a while so I went to use the bathroom. I walk in and all I see is a basket. No toilet. And it’s open weave. This won’t work at all! Briefly confused I look to my left and phew! There’s the toilet. Next to the shower. Each encased in glass. Clear glass. Not a frost job or anything. What the actual F? I don’t have the courage to enter the shower. Clare does. I check her for ticks and hepatitis when she finishes. It’s just for one night. We can do this. Just don’t touch anything. If you can help it. We spend 5 minutes trying to figure out the lights (every hotel has a bank of 9 or 12 light switches — each one with one magic button that turns everything off or on, although we can only find the ‘off’ position. In one hotel, I spent several minutes showering in complete light depravation and Clare laughed as she tried to turn them back on.) Once we were purelled and in darkness, we went to bed. With little hope of a clean or edible breakfast.

Next morning. Clare had already gone ahead and I was meeting her on 5A for breakfast. Why 5A? No clue. There was no 5B. But there was a 15A. We were sleeping on that floor. I guess A is reserved for assholes.) When I exited the elevator, there was a woman to take my breakfast coupon. She waved me to the right to follow the signs to the cafeteria. I turn the corner and hesitantly walked down a low-lit hallway with several turns. I passed by the laundry. I passed by the maintenance room, I passed by a room where they threw random things like lamps and dead bodies. I found Clare and she reported that much to her surprise, there was a surprising amount of quality food. Plenty recognizable food stuff and a few things for the adventurous traveler.

We sat in the room with a little Karen Carpenter “Sweet Sweet Smile” playing overhead (it was so trite it was funny) and compared notes now that the experience so far had been processed. Clare had some questions: What are those stains from? Why can’t we work the lights? Why does every hotel have 64 different light switches? Why is the bathroom a glass jail? Why in the name of Mao did I hear gunshots this morning? (OK. I didn’t hear that, but I believe her.)

I had questions as well: why is there a separate entrance to the breakfast room with subway turnstiles (the kind that you swipe a transit card?) Why are there so many men wearing multi-colored stripped shirts and shorts? What comes out when you push Yi purple potato on the coffee machine? Then Clare looks at me with somewhat crazy eyes and says, “and this song has been playing on a loop since I’ve been here. I think I’ve already heard it 7 times!” She was right. It was the only song we heard for the next hour. We were Daryl held captive by the saviors. But his living conditions were far superior. We guess it might be a way to clear us out quickly. If that didn’t do it the Yi purple potato would. (It’s a drink) Satisfied with the breakfast offering — a dubious trade off — we returned to get our bags.

We survive the murder hallway and get back onto the elevator.

Clare then says, “I really think we’re in a brothel! Didn’t you see all the suggestive ads?” Holy syphilis, Batman. We have CHILDREN in our group. It all makes sense. The men AND women in ‘uniform.’ (There was a pile of them in the laundry.) The mattresses placed on their sides as if to air out bodily fluids. There’s a ‘please wait’ button in the bathroom. Pretty sure that’s not to warn of a John Candy worthy washroom visit. Then. Undeniable proof. As we exited to the lobby, waiting to get on the elevator was a flood of young girls all dressed in various styles and shades of lace. I was too shocked to snap a photo. They all had bags filled with work things. It was 830am on a Monday. I guess that’s working time in all cultures. The young girls continued to come into the lobby and exit upstairs. One of the girls on our trip (about 7 years old) said “I think they’re having a girl party.” Indeed sweet pea. Indeed.

Because it was still pouring outside (God and the angels were crying because of the Chinese sex trade brought to you by Nexus Holidays) we had to find an alternate way to the bus that avoided the alley. Kelly disappeared to negotiate a mostly dry exit — just don’t turn on your black light. I would have welcomed a walk in the rain to cleanse myself of potential STDs and shame. She returned and said we would be allowed to leave through the ‘spa.’ We enter the lobby of the spa and no way are these two buildings connected. I wanted to take photos of all the advertisements to see if I could have them translated to see what the promotional offers were — just to confirm our well-founded suspicions. As if we needed that. I really just wanted to get on to the bus and get to the nearest Silkwood shower (look it up.)

As we pulled away in the daylight, it was painfully clear we were in a ‘district’ of sorts — filled with foot massage outlets and other spa-type offerings. Anyone remember Times Square before Giuliani cleaned it up? Yeah. It was that. On neon steroids.

Good-bye Hangzhou. I’m glad we hardly knew ya.