Welcome to Hotel Purgatory.
The pictures promised clean, modern rooms. What we got was a lukewarm time capsule of broken dreams.
The bed? One half felt like concrete, the other like soggy cotton wool. I spent the night clinging to the edge, trying not to roll into the abyss. At 5'10", my feet dangled off the end – ideal for those who enjoy partial circulation.
Sleep? Forget it. The London Underground might as well run through the wardrobe – the room shook and hummed like a possessed fridge every time a train passed.
Temperature? Approaching the surface of the sun. The standalone AC (see photo) made more noise than wind, and less wind than a bored hamster with asthma.
And then, the pièce de résistance: the bathroom. “Suite” is generous. This was less spa, more condemned cell. I’ve showered in jungle huts, mountain lodges, and roadside motels – this was worse. Dirt, mould, and despair, all in one tiled box (photos attached, bring eye bleach).
Comfort: 0/10
Cleanliness: 0/10
Noise Levels: 0/10
Recommend to a friend? Not if I like them.
Recommend to an enemy? Absolutely.
Avoid unless you’re collecting trauma for a memoir.
