The Perils of Civilization

I was looking forward to a night in a hotel.  I craved a cozy bed, pillows thicker than a slice of bread, and, most of all, privacy.  After sleeping on the top bunk in overcrowded hotels for three weeks, I was ready to return to a physical space that resembled my life at home. 

But, alas, my wishes were only partly realized.  When I booked a European tour with Con-tiki, I bought one additional night’s stay at the Royal National Hotel in London.  I had made the arrangements months ago, but I expected the place to be posh.  I mean, royal is in the name.  The Overlook Hotel from The Shining would have been more appealing.

 

Much to my consternation, I discovered upon opening the door that I was sharing this room with someone I never met.  Our twin beds are two feet apart.  

Sleeping in a large room with multiple strangers allowed for anonymity, but this set-up allowed no room for shyness.  If you farted in the dark at a hostel, you'd have a legitimate mystery and enough space to hide your embarrassment in the shadows, but there is no room for secrets in this cramped hotel room.  I had planned to hand-wash my socks and underwear in the sink.  Then I would splay them all over the room to dry, but I abandoned this plan.  I thought it impudent to expose my undergarments with a roommate bound to barge in any moment. 

After the initial awkwardness, I accepted my fate and vowed to embrace this night’s rest lying next to a complete stranger.  In order to learn more about this man before meeting him, I inspected the tag on his luggage.  He arrived in Heathrow Airport the day before.  His name is Brok, and he flew in from Malaysia.  The pair of jeans strewn across the carpet alerted me to his gender.  The Malaysian airport seemed to signify he was Asian, but his Lonely Planet Europe guide was printed in English.  Superior detectives would have found meaning in these clues.  When I met him later that night, he told me he’s from Australia.  He is a very confident and cordial fellow with impeccable comedic timing.  He’s the sort of guy I would want my sister to date if I had a sister.     

Although I only received half of the privacy I wished for, staying in the Royal National Hotel in London enabled me to see what life was truly like in the past.  To achieve this effect, museums were not as successful in their attempts to bring historical artifacts to life.  In my hotel room, there is a giant box television from the 1990s.  When I pressed the ON button on the set, nothing happened.  Oddly enough, I flicked a switch on the wall and the local news turned on.  The image was grainy, and the people spoke tonelessly as though their voices were filtered through those old telephones with spirally cords.  I tried to change the channel, but the button did not work.  I suspect if I called guest services, they would send up a rare electrician who specializes in cathode ray tubes. 

 
When I took a shower in the narrow tub, the water sprayed me as though erupting from an inverted geyser.  A vent opposite the nozzle blew hurricane winds that forced the shower curtain to flap wildly.  The curtain clung to my wet skin, so I placed it on the outside of the tub to avoid its embrace.  Although I was free of the curtain’s clutches, this minor change turned the bathroom into a small pool. 

The air from the vent and the aggressive spout spit water all over the place.  The curtain absorbed some of the blasts, and the water trickled down to the bottom and dripped onto the minor lake forming on the floor. 

Slightly mortified but at the least refreshed, I stepped outside the tub and into the ankle-deep puddle, and thought, “This must be what life was like during the first hiccups of indoor plumbing.”  After the violent experience, I vowed to take the rest of my baths in the River Thames. 

To make matters worse, I was down to my last pair of underwear, and I desperately needed to wash my clothes before beginning a 35-day tour through Europe.  Since I would be living in a tent for the next five weeks, I vowed to find a rinse cycle before leaving English-speaking lands.  I discovered a card advertising laundry service for the equivalent of $30.  I wondered if my clothes would be hand-washed with imported soaps made from the fats of endangered species and then flown to France where they could dry in the elegant breezes of a lavender field. 

The placard also indicated that while the housekeeping staff promises to fold items carefully, they will not bother to sort the darks from the whites.  Should you lose a button or perhaps misplace the engagement ring you left in the back pocket of your jeans, the hotel staff will not be held responsible. 

 

As I did not wish to pay this outrageous price, I searched the streets for a Laundromat.  I stumbled upon the closest one I could find within a two-mile radius situated in a quiet neighborhood.  For one wash cycle, the price was eight dollars.  If you wished to dry your load for an hour that would cost you an additional eight dollars, but I could not guarantee that would do the trick for my extra-large load.  I calculated that detergent would cost me at least four dollars, but the smallest bottle had a 16-load capacity.  I could generously donate the rest of my detergent to the washer-less citizens of London, or waste time trying to find a smaller packet of detergent, or use none at all. 

Due to my unfavorable options, I guiltily surrendered to the most expensive laundry service I have ever encountered.  

Should I return to this godforsaken hotel, I will use the sink and hand-wash my clothes with the complimentary bar of soap.  If I’m feeling particularly bitter, I’ll leave the faucet running all night, too, just to even the score.