The hotel nightmare

We wanted to go to our beloved Portugal again. ‘We’ is him and me. I wanted Lisbon, he wanted the Algarve. It became a little road trip, so we could both do it. We would also make an extra stop in Porto and that tiny cozy fishing village that Sander had researched.

Mr. accuses me here and there of snobbish behavior so he would quickly find a ‘nice’ apartment for the second night. ‘We're only sleeping there for a few hours and then you have free rein in Lisbon when it comes to hotels.’ Fair enough. We drive to the fishing village where I can already see at a glance that there is nothing to experience and that it is not really the prettiest place in the region, but I hold back. He gets his fishing village, I get after that the pink boutique hotel with ornaments in the ceiling in the center of Lisbon.

The gate behind which the apartment is hidden is locked. No one answers. Correction: for half an hour we stand in a scorching parking lot and have no idea what to do. The only phone number we received goes unanswered. Then, after three quarters of an hour, the owner finally calls to inform us that his mother-in-law (who is stuck in traffic) is on her way, and that the sheets in the apartment need to be ‘quickly’ changed and then she can give us a tour. I feel a wave of annoyance coming on. Sander looks at me sternly and says we just need to be patient. Because I am always too impatient and in Portugal, everything is just laid-back.

We stand on a burning parking lot for an hour and a half when finally a little car comes our way. Two women get out and don't speak a word of English, but gesture us towards the gate. The nice ‘swimming pool’ that Sander had shown me in the photos looks rather, um, empty. When we walk into the apartment, the smell of wet mushroom hits me in the throat. I start laughing uncontrollably and see Sander looking around hopelessly. This is the most disgusting house ever. No way we are doing this. The women still understand zero point zero English, but gesture us that we can take our suitcase out of the car while they change the musty sheets for a kind of woolly blanket that gives you instant germophobia. We only need one glance.

He thinks what I think. We walk the first ten meters normally. Then quickly. In a jog. Sprinting. We run to the car, jump in, and drive off like two fugitives on the F*CKING PLANKEN. ‘DRIVE FOR YOUR LIFE, SAN!!!‘ I scream. Gasping with laughter. Crying. That car almost had to pull over too, because it was just dangerous to have such a bad case of the giggles behind the wheel.

No, it was certainly not chic to sneak away like that, but it was also not human to ask for money for that house, goodbye. Dear San, you are a gem, but picking hotels, let me handle that from now on, okay? Find those mushrooms only on your plate instead of in your bed. Silly.