⭐☆☆☆☆
If Hunter S. Thompson designed a hotel during a fever dream and outsourced the construction to a haunted circus, this would be the result.
Let’s break it down:
We were greeted in the lobby by a man who could only be described as a part-time pimp, full-time philosopher. He nodded once, then vanished into a bead curtain.
The walls? Covered in AstroTurf. Because who hasn’t looked at a football field and thought, “Yes… this belongs in a hallway.”
The floors were so slippery I moonwalked to the elevator by accident—and I wasn’t even wearing socks.
Every guest looked like they were halfway through auditioning for a reboot of Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I'm not saying I saw a man with two bellybuttons, but I’m also not saying I didn’t.
There was a roach in the bathroom who looked like he paid rent.
The water pressure was so low I had to choose between washing one armpit or crying. I chose both.
The air smelled like regret, pickles, and something that once might’ve been a candle.
No Bible in the nightstand—just a sticky note that said “Good luck.”
The parking situation involved crossing a highway on foot and leaving your car in what used to be an abandoned Chili’s. Pretty sure it’s now a raccoon dojo.
The only saving grace? It’s close to the Mann Center, so if you live through the night, you can still catch a decent concert.
All in all, I came for a bed and a shower and left with questions about the fabric of reality.