Mincey’s Musings
Year Two, Week Nine

I was part of a conversation last week that revolved on horrible motel experiences. It seems that anyone who has traveled much at all has a horror story or two to tell about overnight travel accommodations.

I had a nephew who was graduating from Marine basic training at Paris Island, South Carolina. There is much I could tell you about that trip, and I believe I will share that experience with you next week. But for now, the only part I’ll share is about the hotel.

The six of us just planned to go see my nephew graduate—his loving parents, his proud sister, his maternal and paternal grandmothers, and Uncle Ronnie. We hopped in our vehicles and went. Though there were six of us, we never made overnight reservations. It never even occurred to us jetsetters that there might be many other families who would be smart enough to make overnight arrangements.

But it seems the other families were advance planners. Whatever the reason, we found ourselves scraping for lodging at what the most inexperienced traveler in the world would recognize as a low class hotel. I would say the Savior’s stable might have been more inviting. Our suspicions were confirmed when the desk clerk told us to check out our rooms before we checked in, as the hotel was going to shut down very soon and no refunds were possible.

So we went to check the rooms. Not much use, I fear, for these were probably the only available rooms in South Carolina that evening. The furniture, wall coverings and paint were dated from around the time Psycho was a hit feature at the theater. After a cursory look, we went back down and paid the bill, which I remember being very reasonable.
And there was a reason for this economy. Many of the hidden features became obvious only at bedtime. The plumbing performed as if it knew exactly how many hours of operation the establishment had left. The water was rusty, and no amount of money could have caused me to take one sip of it into my mouth, such was its odor and rusty look. I felt dirtier after my shower than before, but everyone knows that you can sleep so much better in a clean bed after a nice warm lukewarm shower.

Did I say a clean bed? I shared a double room with my mother, but mother rarely complained about anything, and though she had gone to bed before me, I had not a clue as to what might be forthcoming.

The first thing I noticed is that the sheets seemed extremely stiff, more as if they were quilts. I determined they had received too much starch. I next detected the sheets were parchment colored, the same color white paper turns when it is left in the sunlight for too long. (Thank goodness, this color was uniform—at least we were not dealing with stains!)

When I slid my weary body between the sheets, I noticed their smell. Not the fresh just laundered fragrance one expects in a just cleaned hotel room. This was the smell of age, dampness, mold and mildew. Being on the coast, I’m sure it was hard to keep humidity from affecting rooms and furnishings. But this room had the smell of a room that had housed smokers perhaps for the last time when Norman Bates was proprietor. I could almost guarantee that I was the first person to attempt to sleep in this bed since it had been made many months before.

Nevertheless, weariness often overcomes lack of comfort. I was all snuggled up when I moved my leg and felt something prick me, sharply. Fear instantly racked my frame—what was in this bed with me? My first and greatest fear was a spider (or what could be worse, SPIDERS!). I don’t think I thought of bedbugs, though the thought would have been no more comforting.

What a relief when I turned the light back on, jumped out of bed, threw back the ancient covers, to find . . . a cocklebur! I have never stopped to think for one second what might have caused that object to be in that bed. I spent the rest of the night on top of the covers, and that was a relief, as the air conditioning was following the plumbing’s lead not to work one minute more than was necessary to outlast the crumbling hostelry.

Believe it or not, this was not the worst night I ever spent traveling. For the last few years of his life, my brother J. C. and I took annual vacations. J. C. loved to drive—he enjoyed driving more than seeing sights. On this particular day he drove until practically midnight before finding lodging.

J. C. was also into bargains, and this motel caught his eye. It was midnight, after all, and we thought we could have gladly slept on a rock beside the road.

And we might have been better off. If the Paris Island hotel could have compared to Jesus’ stable, this one could have compared to another extremity of Christianity. It was so bad I don’t even remember the state in which it was located (thankfully not Tennessee). We checked into this room, and I don’t believe we would have stayed had J. C. not have had his gun. (Legal, you ask? WHO CARED?)

There were some very strange people there, and the place stayed quite noisy for a large part of the night. J. C. asked me which bed I wanted, and perhaps I should have done some investigating before choosing the one next to the window. When I turned it down, J. C. uttered an oath, and said, “That looks like some woman just had a baby in that bed!”

Did my considerate brother offer to trade with me? No, but he did for the rest of his life remember every time we mentioned that hotel that my bed looked like a woman had just had a baby in it. No matter—I spent my second night of travel in this world sleeping on top of the covers!

Sad thing is, that place was a quiet as a church when we left at daylight the next morning, ready for another day of adventure on the low roads of America. I guess the other inmates were sleeping it off.

Remember, if ever in doubt, get a tour guide to plan your next vacation. Just remember, you don’t want your next stay to be your last!