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!
(Some people stay at fancy hotels for the sophistication. I…make pillow forts.)