It’s a funky old downtown hotel, several steps up from the sidewalk. The esthetic seems to be artsy threadbare. Several good bars are just around the corner. The train station is about a mile away.
A friendly clerk handles check in at the desk and explains that there is hotel bar, but only open on certain nights, and a coffee shop only open in the mornings. She finds the bellman, who then carries my bags up with cheerful solicitude. The main hotel is another half dozen steps up.
The lobby is small, with black couches and bad lighting. Neon signs decorate here and there, and a generous expanse of mirrors improves the sense of space. The floors are tile or planking with occasional rugs.
From the main floor, you go up in a “Lift” that has a door on hinges that opens on a steel cage. The cage travels slowly up and down in a concrete shaft that you could reach out and touch as it slides past, if you were so foolish. The concrete is raw between floors, with a painted red door at each floor. I’m told the hotel was once a brothel.
The lights are garish, I can say that. None meant for reading. All dim and glaring at the same time. The halls are shadowy.
The room is dark with spots of illumination at key points. When the sun comes in the western windows, the light is good. There is a vintage half-couch that molds you into a laid-back posture almost like a hammock. Hm. The bathroom is black tile, gloomy, and there is no hot water.
The television is easy to operate, unlike in most hotels. A tiny desk allows work at a laptop. There are plenty of electrical outlets.
The bed is big and comfortable, with adequate covers and good pillows. I slept well and made it to the train station by 5 am.
RobinCravey 