If you ever get the opportunity to stay at a certain little art deco hotel in South Beach, do not.
A block from the ocean and a half-step off the beaten path from all that shimmers, this hotel boasts a 1930s beauty reserved for black and white movies, diamond-encrusted headbands, and white gloves perched with black cigarette holders.
Until anyone who works there opens their mouth.
“I’m having a hot flash,” the receptionist shares, fanning herself aggressively while looking for my room key. “You know what’s it’s like being past 40, don’t you, Molly?”
Strike one.
My mouth hangs open.
I don’t care if I look 95 years old. If someone ever talks to me assuming I’ve lived over four decades … you’re dead.
“You can either pay $46 a night to park your car valet, or self-park for $22 a night, but it’s a 7-minute walk.”
“I’ll valet,” I say. As a woman traveling solo, I’m not risking having to walk home in the dark.
“When you need your car, call us 15 to 30 minutes in advance so that someone can get it.”
Are you kidding me? If I’m spending $46 a day for my rental car to simply be parked, I’d hope that that they would move a little faster, or at least help me with my bags (Nope. No one moved a muscle when I pulled up or departed. Just stood there, mouth agape, watching me struggle. Thankssomuuuuuch)
I’m handed my room keys and walk past a pool and an on-site restaurant, internally chirping at the amenities, customer service be damned.
My suite is a treat which boasts a small kitchen (without wine glasses) and is covered in lush carpeting and two window-unit ACs that claim it’s 68 degrees inside, but I’m pretty sure they’re both bastard children of Donald Trump as all they do is blow air and pretend there’s any kind of temperature control.
I use the bathroom, but the toilet doesn’t flush. The water is turned off for some unknown reason. I love when my urine sits unmoving.
I try the TV, but it just screams at me in Spanish, which would be fine if I could just adjust the volume. “No comprende!” the fetus-sized TV shouts when I push its buttons. “You can’t abort this level of sound!”
“Whatever,” I think. “I’m only here to sleep. Otherwise, I’ll be in the (ice cold, not heated, and open-when-it-feels-like-it-usually-noon-to-five-pm-because-that’s-normal kind of hours) pool, at the restaurant, or at the beach.
I go the front desk to grab beach towels.
“Which way to the beach?” I ask the front desk.
“I assume you’ll want full-service,” the front desk prods.
I learn this means chairs and an umbrella and an extra-long walk.
“Nope!” I say. I’m here to bathe in the sun not hide from it. “Just looking for the fastest route to the ocean.”
She audibly sighs.
Strike 2.
There evidently is some kind of arrangement with Beach Brothers or Sand Sisters or whoever the Hell, and I’m not into it. I’m not trying to double up with both beach birth control and condom the sun. I’m here to raw dog that star until I’m impregnated with sunshine and my uterus explodes with rays.
I grab the two washcloth-sized towels I’m afforded and run off to the crystal clear Atlantic.
Upon my return, all I want is dessert and a bev, but have no qualms as there’s a restaurant. On. Site.
“Yes, I’d like a tiramisu and a Cabernet,” I say politely.
The waitress blinks.
“You’d like your dessert to go?”
“No,” I say. “I’d like that for here.”
She pours me a long-time opened and funeral-flower sweet red wine and hands me a to-go bag.
“Your dessert is ready. You can go now.” Says another waitress.
What the fuck is going on? It is nowhere near closing time. Even still, I decide to leave because I’m dealing with whatever this nonsense is.
I head back to my room and stick a fork into my … tiramisu?
Something is wrong. I’m not sure what, but this dessert is off. The lady fingers taste like man hands.
I look up the restaurant … “Proudly vegan!” it chimes.
I slam my head off the mid-century modern dining table, a starburst imprinting my forehead.
Strike. Fucking. Three.
I booked a fake hotel that serves fake food in its fake restaurant.
What in the North Korea grocery store is going on here?
I’ve had enough. It’s time to go, and at 9:15 a.m., I know I need to call for my car if I’m going to get it before 10.
I pick up the suite phone and dial 0 for the front desk as instructed.
There’s no dial tone.
The phone is fake, too.
Good thing I wasn’t trying to call 911 or getting murdered.
Or perhaps I’m already dead.
“Welcome to Hell,” the front desk says too brightly. “We hope you enjoyed your stay.”
Then she bursts into flames.
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