Don't judge a book by its cover
On the outside the Inn on the Greens seem as amiable as any mom-and-pop motels along the county routes of America. Nice lobby, agreeable staff, old but attractive curb appeal.
Asking the innkeeper if all the rooms were as bad as 205 was bold for me, and a bit like the old ‘do you still beat your wife’ lawyer question trick. I have stayed in many hotels and motels in my life in the US, but this one would be near the bottom of the list for value. I could probably overlook the following gripes if the kindly lady at the desk didn’t burn me with a full rate and then advertise a lower rate on the marquee 12 hours later. At the time I was slightly grateful, until the light of day came and we realized we were one of three cars in the lot (she had said that rooms were going to be hard to come by after tonight).
- The room contained a dank smell of damp carpet, Viceroy butts, and canine.
- Toilet paper clearly Eastern Bloc surplus
- Inventory: television remote: 1, working batteries: 0
- Until I retrieved my pliers out of the car, the showerhead performed a 360-degree water show
- Sink stopper broken as well
- Owners must be members of some offshoot cult that prohibits interior painting.
- Past guests, however, had a penchant for painting. The closet was covered with graffiti.
- Prisons serve better complimentary breakfasts: coffee, Tampico and a donut.
- Did I mention my wife’s spider bite?
- Lastly, I had to prepay the room. Prepaid rooms? Outside of a by-the-hour red light district motel (or ironically, rooms booked online), I didn’t know of any place I would have to pre-pay. This should have been my first hint of what was to come.