Hilton: The 4 star screw up

One of the things we were really looking forward to on this trip was reaching Niagara Falls. Not only were we going to be seeing one of the natural beauties of the world, we had also decided to splurge and stay in the Hilton. It was going to be great; our room was high enough and cost enough that we were going to be having in-room views of both the Canadian and the American falls. We could hear the roar as thousands of litres of water rushed over the edge, we could almost feel the spray. We would be staying in luxury that would put our other accommodations (admittedly, chosen as much for their cheapness as any other criteria) so far into the shade that we would probably be griping about their crapness for the next 4 weeks. Or so we thought.

Because almost from the moment we arrived, I've been questionning whether it was worth all the extra cash. Sure, the views are great. But what do views matter when there is a litany of disaster strewn across the interior?

It started when we first arrived at the door to our room, fully laden with our bags because we were trying to avoid the insane tipping system that sees anybody getting cash out of you, however crap their service. But we couldn't get into the room, because neither of our electronic key cards worked. A trek down to the lobby later, and we could get in. And yes, the view is great, if you discount the enormous Fallsview Casino that splits the two falls, and the car park that partially blocks the view of the Canadian falls. Or the crane that is out to the side, by the corner window, with it's cabin just a floor below ours. It is awe inspiring, and we were suitably gobsmacked. Had that been the only problem, we would have considered our stay enjoyable, in spite of the need to divide the Crabtree and Evelyn toiletries between us, as they hadn't given enough for 2 people to use. But it didn't stop there.

After a trip to the Falls, and many photographs for L, we came back to the room, planning to treat ourselves to room service. This is, after all, an early birthday treat for me, and the only thing that would have completed it more than lazing about in luxury having room service (i.e., having minions wait on my every command) would have been a massage. But getting back into the room once again proved problematic. Because my key still didn't work. Luckily, L's did, and we were in, on the bed, and ordering from the children's menu in no time. When the food arrived, it looked great. L's lasagna was a gooey concoction of cheese, tomato and pasta, just as all good lasagna should be. Mine was a couple of chicken drumsticks with vegetables. The veg was delicious, cooked well and not dripping in oil, unlike many other meals we'd sampled to date. I bit into the chicken, crispy coating flying off the drumstick (I'd thrown caution - and etiquette - to the winds and was eating with my hands by this stage). But something wasn't quite right here. It was too hard to get through the bite. A look at the drumstick revealed why. There was blood oozing along the bone. I've never actually seem chicken that has been cooked do this before. It was stomach churningly vile.

So of course, I called up and got them to bring me a replacement meal. It took a while, as well. Someone came to take the plate away, first, clearly not believing me without seeing for themselves. By the time the new meal came, it was on towards ten o'clock. If I hadn't been starting to feel queasy from the rare chicken, I would have been ravenous, gnawing my own arm. As it was, I was a little wary of the replacement meal and immediately cut into the drumstick, not wanting a repeat. And it was almost as bad, the meat a horrible dark colour that suggested that it hadn't been properly prepared before cooking. So I called them up again to complain. "So you want it well done then?" asked the person on the other end of the phone. Now, as far as I am aware, you don't ever ask how you want your chicken cooked. There is no medium rare for chicken. There is only cooked, or uncooked. And this was clearly the latter. So I just got my money back, a strange hybrid of US and Canadian money that came with an apology and a promise to "tell the cooks". Because clearly, they hadn't been informed that they sent up a chicken that had only just left the coop the last time. By this stage, I was considering myself lucky to not be camped out by the toilet bowl, because I was feeling decidedly unwell.

So I did what seemed reasonable for someone feeling a bit sick. I went to bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted. After all, I had spent the day before reminding L that when she's driving, it's a good idea not to wander across the road, not to steer where you turn your head, and that the Americans drive on what is quite clearly the wrong side of the road. I had also been trying to answer questions that there was no way I could have known the answer to: how does the US/Canada border crossing work? where do I pay the toll? And, as you might expect, I was in a beautiful queen size bed, the perfect amount of support, the perfect pillow configuration. Sleep-wise, it was great. It was only when I woke up again and stepped into the shower that the next screw up hit me.

The shower should have been awesome. It should have made up for any number of pathetic showers along the way. It should have delivered on the border guard's assertion that only the best things are to be found in Canada. But it didn't. Because the thermostatic mixer thing was loose. Because gravity pushing things down. Because the hot setting was at the top of the dial. Because I didn't like being scalded whilst in the shower. Funny, that last one. I have a strange dislike for the sense that my skin is about to leave my body. Probably a similar feeling to what the chicken had as I bit into it's leg. But either way, I've come out of the bathroom and to my computer, still with something of a stomach ache, all steamed up because there's no exhaust in the bathroom either, to sit on my ratty desk chair (like something that the Thistle hotels I was working on in the UK would have discarded long ago as being too worn out, given that you can actually see the padding on the seat), with the TV providing a fuzzy picture reminiscent of the reception you get with the old bunny-ears style aerials, and turned to my blog to work up the kind of righteous indignation I can never manage in person. Because although I plan to go downstairs and complain, and demand to know what they're going to do with me, I'm certain that I will be ineffectual. And that's not right. Because this is supposed to be a treat, staying here. It's supposed to be a bit special. And so far, it's been special for all the wrong reasons.