The second I walked into the reception, it was a circus. Some loud fight going on, and the receptionist straight-up slammed the phone in the face of the customer ahead of me. Real professional, huh? The room itself was a dump—cockroaches crawling around, AC vent busted, and the damn thing wasn’t even cooling. Bedsheets and blanket? Covered in stains of God-knows-what—looked nasty enough that I didn’t even want to guess.
My key card stopped working on second day.So I went down, and it did not work, so, went back again, and the genius at the desk actually says, “I said 321, not 221.” Lady, are you high? There isn’t even a damn third floor in this dump for a “321” to exist. I wanted to ask if she’s brain-dead, cross-eyed, or just plain useless, but I’d just had surgery and didn’t have the energy to argue with a walking headache.
Bottom line: that lady shouldn’t be anywhere near a front desk. She’s the last person who should be representing any kind of hotel/motel.