Wigmore Court Hotel

Okay, a lot of people warned me that my hotels weren’t going to be everything I ever wanted, but I had a plan. Find affordable hotels in fairly central locations, at least to public transportation, with at least decent online ratings. I figure I’ll be lucky sometimes and unlucky sometimes. I’ll let you know as I go along.

First up, five nights at the Wigmore Court Hotel in London. I have a room with a twin bed for 68 pounds (around $111) a night. If you’re familiar with London, then you know that the price is hard to beat. How’s the hotel? I’ll rate by category:

Affordability: $111/night in London. I’d call that pretty damn affordable.

Location: The hotel is about halfway between Regents Park and Hyde Park in the western part of town. It’s a short walking distance to shops on Oxford Street and walking distance to several tube stops on several lines. This morning, I was able to walk to the British Museum in about 25 minutes and could have subwayed there much quicker if I wanted to save some time. All-in-all, I’m pretty happy with it.

Convenience: Well, I do have a bathroom and shower with my room, which I fear I may not have in every hotel on my trip. There is also a free English breakfast every morning from 8 am to 9:30 am and I do love the sausages and tomatoes. There’s an alleged wifi network, but I can only get it to work in spurts. It is free, though, so that’s a plus. Not fancy by any means, but if it’s true that you get what you pay for, I’m pretty happy with what I’m getting for the price. One big problem is that there is no elevator. Wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t have 75 pounds of stuff to bring up four flights of stairs (my room is actually on the top floor, beyond the fire escape exit – so if there’s a fire, I guess I’m safe unless I start it myself), but I do. Oh, well. I’m only bringing it upstairs once and bringing it down should be quite a bit easier.

Cleanliness: Now, those of you who know me well know that I’m not really all that picky. Even with my, let’s call it tolerance, I find the bedding to be a little sketchy. Beyond that, though, the room is rather clean, though the rest of the hotel seems to be in various states of repair and improvement. I’d give it a passing grade, though not through the roof.

Staff: I haven’t had much interaction, but they seem friendly and helpful.

Overall: I would never dream of recommending this hotel to a couple on a honeymoon or any other type of romantic getaway. If you are just looking an inexpensive and convenient place to store your stuff and get some sleep while you’re in London, though, I think this fits the bill very well.

Lucky or Unlucky: I think it’s about what I expected from what I read and I’m happy with that. I’ll call it good choice.

F**k A D**n Red-Eye

Right before I left for the airport to fly to Philadelphia and then London, I had the following conversation with my brother-in-law.

B-I-L: Are you taking a red-eye?

Me: Yup.

B-I-L: F**k a d**n red-eye!!

Me: That’s just how it worked out.

B-I-L: You do what you want. I’m just saying. F**k a d**n red-eye!!

I knew from past experience that the man had a good point. But I learned on the way to London that no truer words have ever been spoken in the English language.

Perhaps sitting in Philadelphia International Airport for eight-and-a-half hours was meant as an omen of things to come. A combination of getting to RDU early and being put on an early plane and a three-hour delay allowed me to spend an entire billable day (not that I have those any more) in an airport that doesn’t have free wireless internet, but does have the worst food options for any airport in North America of its size. But I digress.

Why f**k a d**n red-eye? Combine the following factors: 1) A person that has trouble sleeping in a sitting position (that’s me), 2) An infant who, based on the sounds that were coming from it, I am quite certain was being poked in the face with flaming needles by some invisible demon from 3:00 to 3:45 am, 3) An eight-year-old contortionist sitting next to me who spent the entire night (sleeping) alternating between slamming me in the arm with her head, slapping me in the face with the back of her right hand and kicking me in the chest, and 4) Some idiot with a window seat who decided to open up her window shade at the crack of dawn (which comes quickly when you’re flying east) and spotlighting me like a poor pathetic forest creature. I know some of you have spotlighted deer before. Have you ever had one fall asleep on you while you were doing it? I’m guessing not.

Thanks to flight delays, screaming infants, contortionist children, sadistic idiots, immigration and a long-ass tube ride from the airport to downtown, I arrived in London having slept about 30 minutes of the prior 27 hours and it was only 3 pm here.

Whatever. I stayed up and went out to help get over the jet lag (more in another post), but f**k a d**n red-eye!!

Money

Just so you know what’s going on, I’m writing entries as I get time, which usually is the end of the day, and posting when I have internet service, which is kind of intermittent. So, you may see things a day or two late, but I’ll do the best I can.

Okay, I guess I’ll keep this to one topic per entry. This entry’s topic is money.

While I was sitting in the Philadelphia International Airport for eight hours on Wednesday night (another story for another entry), I saw the oddest transaction. A man had a small bag of Cheetos. This was a little after midnight and all of the stores in the airport were closed and so he was happy to have these Cheetos. His friend wanted the Cheetos and offered to buy them from him. In response, he asked her how much American currency she had remaining. She counted out $17.20. He then offered to sell her the Cheetos for the grand total of $17.20. She laughed, but he was serious. She then thought for a second and decided that a bag of Cheetos after midnight in Philadelphia International Airport and no longer needing to exchange her American currency was worth $17.20 to her.

I thought this was silly when I saw it. Last night, however, I got food and beer at a bar in London and realized that I am not that far from her. I ordered and it the total came to 12 pounds 90. (I can’t find the pound symbol on my computer and I’m not looking anymore.) I gave her a twenty and she gave me a slip of paper and some coins.

I’m good at figuring out money. When I pay at a grocery store, I know exactly how much change I’ve received by the way it feels when it hits my hand. I can count American currency by smell. Whether or not I received 7.10 pounds from the waitress at the bar last night, I have no idea. I would’ve had to sit there and go through coin-by-coin, in bad light, to find out for sure. I did notice that the slip of paper that she handed me had a “5” on it. Assuming it was a five-pound note, I guess there’s a limit to how badly I could have been cheated.

When I’m on my way back, I don’t think I’ll pay ten pounds for a little bag of Cheetos, no matter how hungry I am, but I’m not as sure as I was Wednesday night.