My stay at Motel 6 on West Irlo Bronson Highway in Kissimmee was one of the worst hotel experiences I’ve ever had. Let me be clear—this place was filthy. The room looked halfway cleaned at best, but when I actually settled in, it was like stepping into a trap house with a lock on the door.
There were gnats everywhere—clouds of them flying out of the bathroom and into my face while I was trying to work on my laptop. One of them flew straight into my mouth and I swear it tasted like it came out of a sewer. The smell in the room was horrendous—like a mix of mildew, old body odor, and something rotting. I pulled back the mattress just to check, and the stench that came out from underneath was like stale cologne and cheap perfume from the nineteen-eighties. It hit me like a wall—strong, musty, and sickening.
The sheets weren’t just stained—they had hair all over them. The floor looked like it hadn’t seen a vacuum in weeks, covered in dust and grime. There was no microwave, no refrigerator, and the vending prices were criminal for basic water. The ice machine? Moldy and reeking.
But here’s where it really crossed a line: I went outside to smoke—like the front desk lady told me I could—and while I’m standing by my door, minding my own business, this housekeeper rolls up on me like I’m a threat. I had a bag on my back and hadn’t shaved, and suddenly I’m treated like a stray dog who slipped past security. The way she looked at me, like I didn’t belong there, like I hadn’t paid for