We have all been there. In the hotel corridor with our cases in tow, key card in hand, thrilling to the splendour which may lie beyond the door we are about to push open.
We have done our due diligence: read the reviews, perused the online photographs, checked and double checked the facilities on offer and warmed to those little extras — the stuff that goes beyond mere box-ticking and takes us, purring with gratification, into the realm of luxury. And we have all been on the other side of the hotel room door seconds later as the thrill gives way first to anxiety, then indignation. Same place. Have they really tried to fill it using scrunched up newspapers?
And what are those stains on the cushions? Scratch that, the stains on the other side are even worse. Perpignan, France, I could go on, and will in a bit, but you should know now there is no denouement in my tales of holiday misadventure. In common with most of us, I suck it up, put it down to experience and resolve that the due diligence will be even more thorough next time.
Next time arrives and I find my diligence has again failed to meet the required standard. Like a fool, I have fallen once more for those ecstatic five star reviews and images of to-die-for opulence. But they stood up for themselves when most of us would likely have lain down, muttering only to ourselves about the brazen contempt for paying guests and the injustice of it all.
A stale croissant in the south of France? The place teems with boulangeries offering the crispiest, most heavenly examples of this nationwide breakfast staple. Mould on the walls? Dads are supposed to be problem solvers. We accept appalling standards in much the same way we accept a losing lottery ticket. We spent much of our time in these places writing the Tripadvisor reviews in our heads and taking photographic evidence, lest the proprietor should try to argue.
