Having traveled a fair amount in my life, I’ve stayed in my fair share of budget hostels. I had experienced no accommodations, however, as hostile as the Hotel Riverview. This summer I was in New York by myself for an internship. For the last week of my stay, I had landed a single room and hall bathroom at the less than prestigious Hotel Riverview for $180 a week. On move-in day, my dad pulled his car up to the institutional brick building and unloaded my stuff. I stepped over the two transvestite prostitutes smoking on the front steps and around a jumpy, gaunt young man who kept sniffing his nose. The broiling lobby smelled like a summer camp locker room and several signs reading, “NO REFUNDS,” were stung across the walls. I should have walked out right then, but I thought I could handle it. I wanted to be able to handle it at least.
The door of my room opened out into the hall, since the narrow, single bed inside didn’t leave enough space for it to open into the room. To get inside, I simply stepped directly onto the bed, and there was nowhere else to stand. At this point, I realized that the sheets had a yellow tint and reeked of urine. As my eyes darted back to the window, I noticed that the TV’s wires had been severed, as if the last resident had tried to take it with him, but never bothered to unplug the thing; the messy wires were now knotted in a ball behind the TV. Overwhelmed, I sat down on the rough pillowcase, estimating that its thread-count must have been as low as a canvas sack. I now realized that as an individual who thought about things like thread-count, I was not meant stay in the Hotel Riverview. Since I had no other options though, I could only take it and hope it wouldn’t get worse.
Wanting clean linens and not wanting to be charged for the television, I told the manager about the soiled sheets. He acted as if he had been told this before, and he calmly informed me that clean linens could only be exchanged at 8 p.m. Wednesdays. It was Saturday. Clearly disinterested, he left me mid-sentence and walked into his office. He returned five minutes later and asked, “You’re still here?” I decided to tell him about the TV. “I got someone on that ridaway. When you get home tomorra’, it’s gonna be fixed.” Surprised, I thanked him and returned to my sweltering prison cell, where I stretched out my beach towel over the dirty sheets. Melodramatically, I wondered if I would survive the week. I wanted to call someone, but my friends living in New York were all on vacation. I was drained but couldn’t sleep over the honking horns, shouting and slamming doors. I lay awake the whole night, next to my duffel bag that wouldn’t even fit on the floor.
The next morning, I needed a shower and decided to brave the restroom. Evidently, the night before had produced a kind of “sword fight,” and pee streaked the walls, floor, mirrors and toilet. None of the stalls had locks. This especially disconcerted me when a hairy, obese man exited one of the toilets and winked at me. I pulled open the shower door and screamed. On the drain sat a huge pile of shit. I needed some fresh air.
As I exited the building, the man at the desk called to me, eyebrows raised, “Anyone fixed the TV yet, hun?” He laughed. Too angry to respond, I ignored him, but he wouldn’t relent. “No, no… reeeally,” he said in a mocking tone as he rolled his eyes, “I’ll be right on that.”
As if things weren’t bad enough, I was pick-pocketed on the way to work. I scoured my office and then my hotel room. Friends offered me their apartments and loans, but I had no money or ID. How would I get to work? What would I eat? Until then, I’d done little more than cringe at the whole experience, and, come on, you would cringe too if you found shit in your shower. At this point though, I lay down on my beach towel and sobbed. Defeated, I cut my losses and called home. My mother said she would drive to New York, and I checked out the next evening.
“What’s wrong?” the jerk at the window asked in that same slow, mocking tone. “It’s cause I never fixed the TV, right? Or is New York just too much for ya?” Delirious and smelling from not sleeping or showering in three days, I finally snapped. I narrowed my eyes, literally bared my teeth and leaned my head into the window. “My sister died,” I hissed.
I have no sister, nor do I have any idea why I lied about this. Maybe I was testing to see if he had any shred of compassion in him. He did. Clearly distressed, he pleaded “I’m so, so sorry. Just wait one minute, I may be able to get you a refund.” I was only able to get $20 back, but I was willing to take it. The man insisting on carrying my bag to the car for me. He must have found it odd to see my mother so happily sitting in our car and singing along to “Walking on Sunshine” just after her daughter’s death.
My mom smiled at the man, waving merrily and turned to me. “What a nice man,” she said. “Should we give him a tip?” “No,” I practically yelled. “Let’s just go. I need to take a shower.”
Kathryn Brand is a sophomore in the School of Business and assistant Voices editor of the Georgetown Voice. That isn’t her natural hair color.
