Fancy Hotel & Simple Lessons

Recently, I found myself booked into a city hotel for some work. From the outside, it looked impressive enough to make even a modest traveller feel slightly underdressed. The internet was overflowing with glowing reviews, and friends in the city spoke of it with great confidence, assuring me that this was “the place” to stay if I wanted comfort, convenience, and a smooth trip. With such a build-up, even I began to expect a near-heavenly experience.

I finally reached my room and closed the door behind me, after handsomely tipping the bellboy who had most graciously carried my schoolbag-sized backpack. Ironically, I had lugged it quite happily from home to the hotel entrance on my own shoulder, but the moment I arrived, the hotel staff became determined that this heroic responsibility must belong only to their bellboy. It was apparently a matter of honour, tradition, or perhaps simply hotel protocol that no guest should be seen carrying such a humble burden.

In the room, an army of confusing light switches held unquestioned authority, much like a small-town electricity or water department where everyone waits nervously to see what will work and what will not. The switch near the entrance controlled the light above the writing desk, while the one by the bedside cheerfully operated the corridor light. As for the television, there was no visible switch for it at all. Every time the power tripped and returned, the TV leapt back to life like an overly enthusiastic companion determined not to be ignored. I had to keep the remote handy to switch it off every time that happened.

There were lights cleverly hidden in the ceiling that flashed straight into my eyes the moment I lay down, as if the room wished to interrogate me for some unsolved crime. Yet there was not a single basic reading light anywhere near the bed. The book simply rested there on the side-table, ignored and helpless, while I continued my battle with modern hotel technology.

The bathroom, I must say, looked superb at first sight. It had everything one could possibly need, except perhaps a simple explanation of how anything actually functioned. The exhaust did not work. Or perhaps it did, but I could not find the right switch in that democratic parliament of switches on the wall. Either the exhaust had retired from active service, or it was just there as a decor piece of the architecture, existing more in spirit than in performance.

There was also a telephone next to the toilet seat, a curious piece of hospitality engineering. While sitting there, I thought of calling an old acquaintance of mine, who has still not returned a set of tools he borrowed under the noble promise of “two days only”. As I sat on the seat, I realised how appropriate the setting was. Some people in life are such a pain in the backside that thinking of them while sitting there feels strangely fitting. Calling him from that precise position would have been poetic justice of the most natural kind.

And then there was the transparent glass between the bathroom and the bedroom. I still wonder what purpose it serves. Perhaps some clever designer in a distant city thought it stylish. Perhaps it is meant to add excitement to the lives of newlyweds. But for those who have been married for years and years, it only offers unnecessary visual knowledge of daily routines that both parties already understand far too well. There was a blind provided that could be lowered if required, but still my only question for this glass partition is – Why ?

I did enjoy a nice warm shower. It is always fascinating how places with an abundance of water confidently install high-pressure showers and elaborate bathing systems. To my simple hill-dwelling soul, it felt a little indulgent, almost wasteful. A quiet sense of guilt crept in as I realised how much water was rushing past me, and how many thirsty plants back in my orchard could have gratefully soaked up every drop.

Once I finally dressed up and regained my calm, I thought of stepping into a balcony or terrace for a breath of open air. There was none.

Later, I discovered a lift that demanded my key card with the seriousness of a bank vault, offering a grand sense of security. Unfortunately, that confidence did not last long. The fire escape, on the other hand, was surprisingly friendlier and most welcoming. In fact, it was wonderfully easy to step in from the outside and stroll back to my floor. The hotel clearly believed in security as an idea, but preferred to practise trust, openness, and a generous dash of confusion. Me, being a person who prefers simple things in life, used the fire-escape stairs for most of my stay.

Speaking of fire, there was a neat little escape map fixed on the wall. I studied it carefully and stepped out to familiarise myself with the route. Within seconds I lost all sense of direction. If a real fire ever breaks out, most guests will not be defeated by the flames but by the layout. Finding a forgotten shop in bustling Almora is far easier than finding your way to safety here.

Experiences like these remind me why I prefer simple government rest houses and small homestays like mine. Places where switches behave sensibly, open-areas that welcome you with sky and silence, bathrooms do their job without unnecessary drama, and layouts that do not feel like puzzles designed by excited architects. Simplicity carries its own quiet charm. And very often, that is exactly what the heart longs for.

Click here for all related posts – Browse my blog on slow and sustainable living !