I don’t think I stayed in a hotel until I was 22. B&Bs or pensiones on road trips through France in the 1980s with my parents, yes – the sorts of places where you hand your key back in at reception each time you go out – but hotels? Nope.
In consequence I have that cringing, servile, BRITISH attitude in hotels. A bellhop take my bags? Aaaargh. Tipping? HELP. ME. That and I’m constantly broke, so live in fear that I’ll accidentally sleep-eat the minibar or call the speaking clock on the moon or something and have an almighty checkout bill.
So the prospect of a fancy hotel trip to Rome, while obviously mega-excite, filled me with just a wee bit of dread at the social awkwardness that I can bring to a high-falutin’ living situation.
I needn’t have feared. Don’t think I’ve ever felt so comfortable in a hotel as I did at the Rome Cavalieri: so much so that I took FULL advantage of the approx. 80 bajillion pillows provided to make……….a pillow fort!
Picture me nesting inside this bad boy!
(Some people stay at fancy hotels for the sophistication. I…make pillow forts.)
