A Gaffe at The Gate Hotel

When in Dublin we usually stay with Clarity, and this trip was no exception. However, after a few days of inconveniencing Clarity and her roommates, not to mention her two hyperactive dogs, we opted for a hotel. Denise quickly found The Gate Hotel, which looked great.

The cost was a little more than we wanted to pay, but the hotel web site assured us that the rooms were spacious, modern and clean:

We booked a room and hopped in a taxi. The driver took us to a seedy street and stopped alongside a group of scruffy young people. They had the unhappy air of people disappointed to find their methadone clinic still not open.

Obviously, there was some mistake. There was no iron gate. There were no imposing wooden doors. There was no large stone building. We saw only a depressing row of bars catering to people down on their luck.

We checked the address. It was correct.

We slid past the junkies and found confirmation that we had, indeed, arrived at the Gate Hotel.

I looked at Denise. She looked at me. I took her hand and cautiously opened the door.

We climbed stairs to find a reception desk protected by what appeared to be bulletproof glass. A young man smiled pleasantly from behind the glass. We looked around. The carpet had to have been installed at least twenty years earlier, after it was purchased from the Salvation Army. The office furniture probably was installed at the same time. Everything looked old and decrepit and unclean. The young man’s welcoming smile seemed out of place.

Denise, ever the optimist, said, “You know, this place doesn’t look much like the Internet pictures. But can we at least count on a quiet night’s sleep?”

The smile faded as the young man shook his head. He said that there were bars on either side of the hotel, and across the street. They all play loud music. “But,” he said hopefully, “your room is up two more flights of stairs, so maybe it won’t be that bad.”

I said that I thought we should get a refund and be on her way. This clearly saddened the young man. “We get that a lot,” he said. “The owners won’t hear of it.”

We took the keys and climbed the steep stairs to our room. The windows were open. Obviously someone wanted the musky smell less noticeable. It didn’t work. The room looked and smelled as though your grandmother had lived in it for decades, assuming your grandmother was a 1960’s Skid Row prostitute.

Perhaps you assume that the interior pictures were taken sometime before the hotel experienced hard times. Good for you. God loves people who think the best of others. Sadly, though, the pictures clearly were taken in someone else’s hotel. For one thing, the doors were entirely different. Unlike the door in the advertising picture, ours had a separate bolt lock, a foot or two above the handle. One had to forcefully push or pull the door shut or the bolt would keep the door open.

That night we went with Clarity and Hans to a nearby comedy club and watched very nice people bomb miserably. It was the second worst comedy show I had ever seen. After the worst I wanted to physically assault the comics. After this show I wanted to comfort them.

We spent the rest of the night drinking Old Fashioneds. An Old Fashioned consists of bourbon, bitters and sugar, which is the perfect combination to wash away the taste of failure. I don’t know how many we consumed, but it was enough that Denise and I slept through the rock music playing under our pied-à-terre.

The next morning Denise got up early so she could do a little shopping before our noon flight to Bordeaux. She left the only room key with me, just in case I wanted to go somewhere. I wished her well and went back to sleep.

An hour or so later it was about 9 a.m. I got up and showered and then heard some rustling outside the door. “Aha!” I thought. “Denise didn’t take long.”

I saw that my wife had not pulled the door closed. She would not need me to unlock the door. I impulsively decided to play a little joke on my beloved.

As the door opened I stood in the room as naked as the day I was born. I canted my hips and spread my arms as though I was welcoming a beloved spouse home from war. “Surr-prise!” I shouted.

It worked! The surprise elicited a gaping mouth and huge eyes! Chambermaids almost never are greeted with such warm enthusiasm!

At breakfast I told Denise about the misadventure. I expected her to have a good laugh at my expense. Instead she looked deeply concerned.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“That poor woman,” she said.

Registering my confusion, she added, “Having seen you she will go the rest of her life disappointed by the sight of ordinary men.”

Denise did not actually say that. In fact, she didn’t say anything. She just laughed, a deep-from-the-belly laugh. She slapped her knee and bent over until she was red in the face. She looked up a few seconds, caught her breath, and then laughed some more, slapping the table as she did.

I had expected some amusement at my expense. I did not know I would have to take out a loan to cover the cost.