The cheapest room I ever slept in was in the Gothic quarter of Barcelona in 1989. The walls were the color of flypaper and a huge coffinlike credenza scraped against the ceiling like a matchbox inside a dollhouse. Thirteen dollars a night, with stale rolls and watery coffee thrown in for free. Yet somehow this place struck a compromise between insinuating squalor and bohemian romance. The room was on a tiny street near the Picasso Museum and had the most beautiful art nouveau wedding-dress shop on the ground floor. A black wrought iron balcony looked out onto grimy stone buildings and telegraph wires. It wasn’t Paris but it had a certain soul. The second cheapest at nineteen dollars (in 2002) was a pale pink bedchamber in the Hotel Continental in Campeche, on the Yucatán Peninsula of Mexico. This small twin room, reached by hand-tiled winding steps that passed ferns and ornamental archways, had a nostalgic eroticism, like an Arab chamber from the film The Sheltering Sky. The tiny 1920s wooden bed frames were whitewashed and very high up on the walls; three slatted wooden windows opened at cantilevered angles to the noisy street. There was a decrepit ceiling fan. The towels were as thin as a shroud. The sheets might have been over forty years old, but the room was spotless, magical, and strangely famous. Over time I have met other discerning adventurous travelers who had found this hotel, which is well off the radar and somehow missing any trace of conventional ugliness: the digital radio alarm, the meaningless curtain, the minibar, the annoying slab of a pouf at the end of the bed.
The joy one finds in a cheap hotel room so often dwells in discovering what you don’t need. And if you own a small portable clock and your own pillowcase, you don’t need much.
Sometimes it is simply the proportion and thoughtful execution of a room that makes it so pleasing. A room that still haunts me for its absolute Bauhaus bare-bones chic was in the former Hotel San Francisco, in Sitges, Spain (a winding train ride from Barcelona). The lobby had terrazzo tiles, slim sixties’ lines, a fruity-looking chandelier in a lobby with wine-colored leather settees. It had the most sophisticated proportions of any small hotel anywhere. The room looked out onto tiled rooftops and featured a low double bed, a metal stand for the suitcase, a low marble end table, a tiled bathroom, and a balcony. Just nothing really. But the perfect balance of the objects in the room, the simple choice of natural cottons for the bedding, and the curtains (gold, lilac, and saffron), the gleaming polish of exquisitely clean walls and floor, and the gilded buttery light made it the most dignified budget accommodation I have ever encountered. I put a pair of pale blue cotton espadrilles on the red-tiled balcony and sat there staring at them in the dusk, wondering what made certain rooms feel so replete. The answer of course is charm, the sort of charm that quietly encloses function.
And don’t we all pray that such charm is on the other side of the door when we put the hotel key in the lock? There is always that threshold moment, though; and you know within seconds if a room is lovely or just liveable. If a room is dark, has no outlook, has super-banal artwork, strip neon lighting, a massive TV bearing down over the bed, is wedged next to the ice machine or is arranged in a fashion where furniture dominates basic human needs, you immediately want to turn on your heel and run. What I usually do instead is sit right down on the edge of the bed, dial reception, and ask for an alternative … or three. Because no matter how cheap the hotel, there is usually another room you can stand to alter in some way to make habitable during your brief stay.
Many times I have discovered that finding a pleasant experience with cheap accommodation is not as challenging as midrange business hotels—the air-conditioned hell ships where you cannot open a window and all rooms gaze into the blind eye of an atrium full of cascading artificial plants; those twilight-zone interiors that have you lying awake counting the hours to checkout. Chain hotels allow little in the way of variation and are arranged in a way that is hard to rearrange. Often you feel eaten alive by the TV armoire and bang your knees on a minibar you don’t need. And is there anything on earth more depressing than a polyester bedspread the color of slate and plastic lilacs? Maybe a print of a crashing wave.
Sometimes, though, it’s true, a room is just a room because you are between flights or literally in the middle of nowhere. In this context motels and motor inns have a sleazy charm, à la David Lynch, but for the solitary traveler and especially for women, travel accommodations have to be safe. And I never feel safe when my flimsy front door opens out onto a car park, where guests check in by the hour, or where a flickering neon light backlights my every move. I find that places where people go to hide rather than to stay are best avoided.
Questing after a cheap room with a view in summer can be futile. I have stayed in the worst rooms on earth in Montauk just so I could hear the sea. Oceanside bargains only exist in winter when even the snobbiest bed-and-breakfasts condescend to haggle and when nondescript motels take on the poetry that only empty neighboring roms and hallways can confer.
One of the great secrets of staying in any hotel is never to submit to the room exactly as it is laid out. If you don’t want to stare at your luggage, stuff it away. If tourist magazines bore you “file” them in a drawer. If there are appliances that flash red evil numbers in your face late at night, simply unplug them. Sometimes I wrap bedside telephones in towels to stop the blinking lights. And on occasion I have kept the room-service teapot to stuff it full of fresh flowers, just to feel a bit homier.
Throughout all our childhood journeys, my parents carried a kit for cheap or shady hotel rooms. First off, they would remove all the boring nasty art and put it, face to the wall, in the wardrobe. Second, they would throw sarongs or bright African cotton cloths over the couch, tables, and chairs. Third, they’d switch off all overhead lighting and use only the lamps. And fourth, they’d open a handful of oranges to freshen the air and a bottle of wine to liven the soul. Maids hated us. But we always felt at home. Even at a Howard Johnson or a Holiday Inn. Today I would update this plan with a small scented candle in a smoking room, a bunch of fresh lavender or herbs right by the bed (mint is cheap and lovely), my own starched pillowcases, and an evening dress (tuxedo jacket?) or a shawl hung on the wall for decoration. The banks of mirrors in poorly conceived rooms look better when they reflect things you love.
Sometimes you will encounter a room that just cannot be rescued from bad taste, bad outlook, or bad vibes; backpacker hostels where decades of party abuse have generated a shabby aura or loveless economy rooms in which everything is by the book and vaguely institutional. Airless, dark, or gloomy rooms with no ventilation and sinister rooms that simply have the wrong energy make for a false economy. Often a better room is about thirty dollars north of your budget or a short walk away. When arriving in small cities where hotels are clustered in streets, I usually park my family in a café and do an hour of scouting on foot. That way I see not just where the best rooms are but were they are situated in relation to a nice safe park, a pharmacy, or a museum.
The Internet can never replace footwork or gut-level intuition about a place or a space. And most holidays hinge their success or failure by bridging the fragile balance between expectation and reality, moment to moment, town to town. Journeys must always take you somewhere else. And there is no sense in paying a single dollar for a room in which you cannot laugh, make love, or sleep well.
A Checklist for Bedding Down-Market, but Never Downbeat
ADVENTURE ROOM
Okay. If you are going to sleep right on the beach in a palapa hut made of slatted cane, where the bed hangs from the ceiling from hooked ropes (as I did in Tulum, Mexico), you basically need your own sheets. Anything right on the ocean is not just sticky and damp but caked in sand. Have you ever tried to make love in a bed that rocks like a cradle and is full of grit? It’s not very amusing. When sleeping in cabanas, huts, yurts, and any room you can only call a dwelling, invest in extra towels, pillows, and sheets so you feel a bit less creepy-crawly. Don’t forget insect spray and a flashlight, they are absolutely vital. And while you are at the whole Robinson Crusoe vibe, choose one that is sheltered or shaded by trees. The last thing you need in the wild is the sound of liberated travelers going native or peering through the slats of your mud hut.
BED-AND-BREAKFAST ROOM
I could write a whole book of anecdotes about the curious eccentricity of B&B owners whose houses are often so intimate you need a certain “chemistry” to get on—and that seems a bit much when you are footing the bill or trying to be romantic. Usually the bedspreads will reveal the aesthetics and prevailing energy of the house: too many American flags, teddy bears, broderie anglaise canopy bedding, or wicker potpourri baskets, and I move on to a simpler alternative or even seek out a sublet where the owners are not actually on the grounds. It is also important to check the thickness of the walls. Many B&Bs are built in Victorian houses or are add-on renovations that make musicals out of fellow travelers gargling, sneezing, and scolding their kids. Based on these observations:
Choose a room that opens onto a garden or private patio rather than a shared area such as the breakfast room.
Don’t turn your nose up at a shared bathroom. If the loo is right outside your door or the B&B is not full, it will barely make a difference. This can save many dollars. Choose the room with the least pillows, settees, and frilly doodads. A small room feels smaller when decorated by Holly Hobby.
Check on overbearing house rules when scanning the website for a B&B. The more complex the rules, often the more omnipresent the owners, who can be very bored (and nosy) in the dead of winter in Maine.
MOTEL ROOM
Motels need night staff, secure doors, and some distance from cars, road, and pavement to feel comfortable. Don’t rely on the name of a chain to ensure quality or safety and don’t choose a place that is only ten- to twenty-percent cheaper than a better situation. With the proliferation of boutique hotels and home-stay accommodation in even the smallest towns, the era of the motel/motor inn and their standards is slipping. Designed for cars rather than people, this is a budget-travel experience that rarely rises above the banal.
ROADHOUSE OR PUB
In Europe and Australia, a country pub can be a lovely low-budget place to stay, meet local characters, drink ale, and sample provincial cooking. It can also be a place for brawling, boozing, and the sound of poker machines and jukeboxes grinding away into the night. Choose a room as far from the public bar as possible. Or have a few too many yourself and get in the spirit of things. You’ll be guaranteed an excellent fried hangover-breakfast at any rate.
SMALL PRIVATE HOTEL ROOM
Choose sunlight over size, and organization over everything. If a room is bright and well laid out it is usually less shabby and depressing than a room that is trying to be luxurious with too much furniture.
CHAIN HOTEL ROOM
Often it feels hopeless to try and find a room of any character in one of these “supermarket” hotels and the best you can do is find the quietest room for the best rate. Request a room away from the street, the elevator, and the ice machine. Check on current conferences in the hotel. A science fiction convention can be amusing when riding the elevators, but the annual dog show at the Pennsylvania Hotel in New York City with a lobby full of canines and panting pet people in hand-painted sweatshirts is a dog’s breakfast!
FOREIGN ROOM
It is fun (and much cheaper) to try local-style accommodation in a non-Western country. To sleep in a hammock in South America, a futon on the floor in Japan, or a yurt in the foothills of Mongolia. Ditch your need for a DVD player and deliberately choose difference, less for the sake of frugality than a deeper cultural experience.
CHEAPEST ROOM IN A FANCY HOTEL
Like buying the worst house on the best street, there can be bargains to be had in grand hotels off season (especially in European spas in winter or ski lodges in summer) or in cities where tourism has suffered by a recent media focus or gained a negative reputation based on fear rather than fact. I had a blissful time in Oaxaca, three years after a civil revolution; and found the best thing to be doing in that region was being a tourist. Sometimes major airlines offer room-rate packages to five-star hotels in promotions and packages that are way below face value. The Internet has an aggressive market in luxury accommodation for midrange prices and for resorts. The trick with staying here, though, is to indulge in no room service (even boiled water can cost up to ten dollars in a three-star hotel, where service taxes and tips make up the bulk of the bill), to do your own laundry, and sneak in as much food and drink as possible (which can be challenging if a resort is in an isolated locale). Also find out clearly what is included and what is not. You don’t want to wind up like Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn in Two for the Road, sneaking apples into their suite and missing the free slap-up breakfast in the swanky dining room below. In the face of ridiculous room charges for items like hot water, I have simply gone out and bought a ten-dollar electric kettle—an item that is positively indispensable if traveling with children (instant hot cereal!) or the British.
ROOM IN A PRIVATE HOME
In the current economic climate many people are letting their guest cottages, loft spaces, and spare rooms to travelers. If you have enough visual information, you can choose a nice room and have the added benefit of local knowledge through your hosts. On Craigslist I have seen a beach bungalow half a mile from the sand in Los Angeles’s Pacific Palisades neighborhood, a beautiful private guest house on Diamond Head in Hawaii, and many stylish rooms in brownstones and lofts in New York City all in the region of a hundred dollars a night. This option suits people for whom location matters and who have a trusting, adventuresome spirit. In keeping with this is the idea of a house swap—the ultimate in budget travel in that you pay nothing at all except for your own rent, and the cleaning and utilities of the house you travel to.
ROOM IN A MONASTERY, ASHRAM, ZENDO
If you have no children or are traveling alone, a very safe, clean, and peaceful way to see Europe is in the nunneries and monasteries of France and Italy. Around Florence there are several places that offer dormitory and private-room accommodation for much less than a hotel. The limitation on this is often a curfew and, naturally, no guests of the opposite sex. It’s a nice way to travel if you are studying Renaissance art, concentrating on learning a language, or in a philosophical solitary mode. Ashrams in India and beyond offer yoga, spiritual instruction, and usually bland but super-healthy food. Ananda Ashram in Monroe, upstate New York, offers a similar experience and a reduced accommodation rate in exchange for service to the ashram. And you can stay for a single night or a month. As with hotels in the better seasons of spring and summer, rural retreats near big cities become heavily booked. While spiritual retreats are becoming more and more popular for urban people wanting a reflective break from the city (and to spiritual travelers in general), it is wrong to treat them as alternative hotels. Each place has a spiritual code, practiced rituals, some with early rising hours, a meditation program, and a collective aim that guests need to participate in, in order to stay. That might seem limiting at first, a little like “house rules,” but from my experience, a little ritual and participation can enrich your stay so much more.
