The Beachcomber
This last New Year's, the family & I made our way down to Florida to visit various relatives. Somehow my father had picked the Beachcomber out of a list of various hotels; auntie popped in and told us it looked decent from the outside and the lobby. Very well, say we, the Beachcomber it is! It's got a view right on the oceean - what else could one ask for?

Oh how naive we were.

The first sign of danger was when we checked in and were pointed in the direction of a gate "off to the right in the parking lot". We try the first gate we find to the right of the lobby. It leads... nowhere. A couple incredibly narrow back alleys, complete with huge puddles and dripping overhangs. Delightful. We go back, continue hunting, and find another gate farther down. Our keys work here as well, but this will be the only point during the trip; we spend the next three days reaching through the bars to unhook the latch. Security is clearly a priority here.

Our room is actually more of a bungalow. Once again - how delightful! Oh hey, what's this? The parents have found hairs in their soap dish. Brother & I frown sympathetically. "Well of course you can use our bathroom - " except not only have we got a hairy soap dish as well, we've also got a DOOR. That's right. A full-on door to the outside. In our bathroom. And a huge window smacked up next to it. Said window is frosted glass, but shapes are clearly visible through it... and there are NO BLINDS. Showering in this room is an exercise in paranoia.

There is also a more normal door in the kitchen. Sadly, its lock is busted.

In the vein of further bathroom adventures, the toilets occasionally start up in the middle of the night, producing an eerie watery noise. The lights sometimes choose to flicker on and off as well, adding to the whole 'about-to-be-murdered' atmosphere.

We eat at the hotel restaurant for breakfast on our second day. It arrives cool and mediocre; when we inform the waitress, she offers the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Our bill has a tip added to it without our knowledge; when my father inquires, he is informed that "honestly, 20% is average, we really go a bit under." This is not so infuriating unless you've ever worked in a restaurant - then you know that 20% is a GOOD day, and any twunt who expects 20% every time is off their meds. (Later, my father goes back to complain, and the waitress in question tells him "I don't really care - I don't work here anymore" before heading off into the sunset.)

When we return from breakfast, the maids have been through. They have left us a whole NEW set of muddy footprints. What sweethearts!

Our sole delight at the Beachcomber is the sign outside that reads "Sammy Lee: Back From Atlantic City". We spend endless time amusing ourselves with descriptions of what Sammy Lee is probably like. We picture a vaguely greasy middle-aged man, hair slicked back and thinning, flirting with lower-class divorcees who smoke Pall Malls and have perpetual inch-thick roots in their blonde hair. We develop an entire history for Sammy Lee, and - to our great anticipation - he arrives on our last night! We march off to see the show in great excitement.

Sammy Lee is an elderly Jewish man playing "Hava Nagila".

It kind of summed up the entire experience.
(ariza, Sat 19 Jan 2008, 18:28, Reply)