The Ratty Gora Strikes Again

Several years ago, Husband and I loaded up the kids and took off for two weeks in Great Britain. Before we left, we dutifully perused travel lit and made reservations for a place called Rava Gora, a moderately-priced small hotel which was well-rated by a travel expert.

Alas, the Rava Gora, hereinafter referred to as the Ratty Gora, was not up to our American expectations. We had five single beds in one room, a bathroom down the hall, and no screens on our windows, through which flocks of flies circulated after sating themselves on the garbage cans directly below. The bedspreads were not just--well--ratty, but a couple had stains on them that looked suspiciously liked blood. The door lock was a hook and eye dealie, like on Grandma's screen door. I sat up all night as my family slept, alert to any intruders who might try to slit American throats in the dark.

The next morning we moved to the Kensington Hilton. So much for local color.

As you know, husband and I traveled to San Francisco at the end of July so I could attend the RWA conference. Back in May, we had prepared for the trip by making reservations at a small "boutique" hotel called The Cartwright, which, by July, had changed its name to The Larkspur. We received confirmation on May 17 and again just a few days before the date appointed for us to arrive in Frisco.

The flight had been long, and we were tired. The hour was late. But there was no room at the inn. The Larkspur had sold our room out from under us, apparently to the two men in line in front of us who announced they "weren't queers," but would take the deluxe room with the kingsize bed. Husband and I got shuttled off to what was supposedly the only room left in the hotel, a room someone had died in, if one judged by the smell. It was awful--small, crowded with rickety furniture painted mud brown. The two single beds had some sort of plastic lining in the sheets and pillow cases. The woodwork sported heavy layers of white paint over decades of grime. The recent renovations meant gaps between the mismatched bathroom tile filled by great gobs of unsmoothed spackling. The sink was propped up underneath by an unpainted board. The door didn't quite fit its jamb and light gapped on both sides and the bottom. Yes, it was the American Ratty Gora.

We moved into the JW Marriott the next day.