Hotel Horror Story (dishes)

The irony is that I’m writing this hotel horror story FROM a hotel room.

My oldest son and I are on a road trip for his fourth grade Texas history project.  Our goal is to take a bunch of photos for his project and collect a few essay worthy experiences along the way.  

Thanks to priceline, we’re staying at a VERY nice hotel.  Even so, I woke up before dark remembering all the reasons I’ve come to dread staying at a hotel.

During our long drawn out remodel, we stayed in several extended stay hotels.

My very worst memory isn’t the time the hotel water was turned off and I was sent to a “vacant” room in another building only to find a strange man finishing up his shower.  It’s not the one that involves finding strange panties in the dryer with my sons’ school uniforms.  It’s not even the one where the people upstairs had a “domestic disagreement” at 1am.

(Those are all real stories.)

It’s a memory that makes me sick.

hotel horror story dishes

It started on a Tuesday.

Shortly after feeding my family a healthy breakfast from the free all-you-can-eat processed food buffet at the hotel and seeing them off to work and school, I settled in for a long morning of sitting around wondering when my contractor would be finished with my house.

About thirty minutes later, I realized I was sick.

I’ll spare you the details.  The most embarrassing part was having to call the hotel desk to request cleaning supplies for what had splattered.

For the next two days, I made repeated calls for splatter cleanup.

It was viral.  I know that because it spread viscously until both kids were equally sick.  It was one of those “no warning” bugs that hit in violent waves of pain.

Every single time I called, the hotel dispatched Rosa.

Rosa made soothing comforting clucking noises at me as she cleaned splatter.  She would look over at me, shake her head, and go back to cleaning up whatever mess it was that hadn’t made it into the toilet.

I was mortified for another human being to have to see me in that condition, but I was out of options.  (I tried begging the hotel to leave me the supplies and let me clean up my own mess.  They wouldn’t.)

We were still alive the following Monday.

We weren’t feeling quite ourselves, but we were better.  The kids headed off to school, my husband headed to work, and I resumed sitting around fretting about my home.

What I wanted more than anything else was to get my kitchen back.  I wanted to cook a real dinner.

Our room had a kitchenette.  It was fully stocked with plates, glasses, a dishwasher, a refrigerator, and a microwave.

I pulled my crockpot out of storage and headed to the grocery store.  I decided that I could manage to cook some kind of roast chicken with carrots and potatoes in our hotel room.

Tuesday morning found me being blissfully domestic.  I got everything into the crockpot and cleaned up the kitchen.

By the time the maid arrived for her daily cleaning routine, the only evidence of my cooking efforts left was a single coffee cup on the counter and a dirty chicken contaminated towel on the floor.

books left in strange hotels

That’s when my hotel horror story happened.

Rosa walked in and started cleaning.

Since I had nothing else to do during a commercial break, I watched.

I watched in horror as she picked up the towel from the floor and used it (with a bottle of cleaning spray) to wipe down the entire kitchen.

I watched in disgust as she used the same chicken juice infested towel to dry the coffee cup after she rinsed it in cold water.

I watched in revulsion as she went to make our beds without even washing her hands first.

(Oh yuck! Chicken juice on my pillowcase.)

Here’s the worst part.

After I complained to the manager, they took action.

(In his defense, the desk clerk turned several shades of green as I told him the whole story.  But that may have been because I was a little more graphic than “splatter.”)

They sent Rosa back up.  She was supposed to bring me clean dishes.  All she did was swap them from the room down the hall.  I know because I watched.

(By that point, I was realizing that right after sweet Rosa cleaned up our splatter she was heading into someone else’s room.  There’s no telling how many people ended up being sick.)

The moral?

Just because the hotel room has a dishwasher doesn’t mean the maids use it.  You have to clean the entire kitchen every single time you want to use it.

Even at a nice name brand hotel.

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Susan Baker
I have a passion for encouraging weary worn out mothers to find joy in everyday motherhood and peace in unlikely places. I have two elementary school boys, one nerdy husband, and two cats. I have a strange fascination for bad puns, the color pink, socks, and books. I worry about running out of toilet paper, wine, and chocolate.. I serve an amazing God. I live an ordinary life filled with wonder.
Susan Baker
Susan Baker

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Comments

  1. OH DEAR GOD. I might vomit, honestly. This makes me want to cry. And rock ina corner. And maybe get an RV. Worst story ever. P.S. Thank God Lisa is not reading this or I would never be able to convince her to travel again!-Ashley

    • Sorry to have you in the corner rocking back and forth. Later in the day I had one of those “I wonder if I should have shared that” moments. Given all the other stuff that’s happened to me in hotels (have I mentioned the time the roof gave way? or playing “spot the working girl” in the hotel bar? or getting locked on the hotel porch without sufficient clothing?) I should write them down. 🙂

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