As soon as we landed at Heathrow Airport outside London, I asked the hotel service to find a room for me. The dignified staffer told me the cheapest one available was in a four-star Hilton - 100 pounds a night! In Beijing I'd heard there were many family hotels in London with rooms for 40-50 pounds. But the man at the counter seemed trustworthy, and as it was already dark, I bit the bullet , resolving to find something cheaper the next day.
My stay at the Hilton began inauspiciously. Stepping into the shower, I discovered that the drain was blocked. The water was soon up to my ankles, something I hate, and I had to stand with my feet on opposite edges of the bathtub. It was like walking on stilts.
After my shower I phoned the reception desk, which sent up a repairman. He fiddled about for few minutes, said the drain was okay and disappeared. I went back into the bathroom: what a mess! The workman had left slimy black sludge from the drain in the bottom of the tub. Appalled, I turned on the tap to flush it away, but the vile goo stayed put.
Should I call again? Oh, to hell with it , I thought - I'm leaving tomorrow anyway. Then I looked at the guide for guests and found that one could use the TV to access the internet.Terrific! I needed to check my email. I did as the guide said, but all I got was a message on the screen saying "Please wait". Finally I rang reception again and was told that there were too many guests on line; try again later. I waited and waited but still it didn't work. I went to bed fuming.
I awoke at about 2:00 am: surely now I could use the internet, I thought. But when I turned on the TV, "Please wait" appeared yet again. This time I telephoned reception with a bit of Margaret Thatcher in my voice: "There IS something wrong with the equipment. I'm a journalist. I NEED internet access!" Two repairmen materialised. After pressing a few buttons they claimed the problem was the telly. Puffing and panting, the two moved in a big TV set from the next room but this one didn't work either! "It's the line," they said, "You'd better move next door to use the internet." Just as I was picking up my suitcase, the manager on duty rang and said not to bother: internet access was being checked all through the hotel, so now no one could log on.
This was a so-called four-star hotel? Now I really blew my stack , storming down to the lobby to give him a piece of my mind . I must admit he was gracious: "If you're in a hurry to log on, please use my computer." So I sat down at his desk. While I was pecking at the keyboard, several people came over and asked me where cigarettes were sold, or where the loo was - they actually took me for the manager.
Checking out later that morning, I decided I couldn't leave meekly - I really should complain to the manager again. The night manager had gone. As the day manager, a Frenchman, listened to my account of the night's events, he said sorry again and again in a dozen different ways.
"Please don't just say you're sorry," I said. "I was looking forward to this trip to London, but you people have really put a damper on it. I paid a high price for my room but the service has been awful! How do you propose to compensate me?""Well, to express our very real regret, we would like to offer you a free night. I'm sure that this time you will enjoy excellent service." All right, I said - I was curious to see this "excellent" service.
But I still needed to find cheaper lodging; after all, I just had one free night. I sat down in the manager's chair again to use his computer and found a family hotel near Hyde Park. A quick phone call: 45 pounds a night. I also asked if the hotel had been full the night before: no. I realised that the hotel service had done me a bad turn , probably insgroupsto get a higher commission.
That evening I returned to the Hilton. Wow! A two-room suite! On the living-room table a huge basket of fruit. My suitcase had already been moved. When I switched on the TV, "Dear Ms Zhang, welcome to the Hilton!" appeared on the screen. The bathtub was gigantic, and there was an independent shower to boot . I turn on the tap and rejoiced as the water flowed swiftly down the drain. The Hilton really was sincere in its apology.
But this was not the end of my adventures in British inn-keeping.
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