Several years ago, when my husband and I were planning our trip to Tasmania, we decided to splurge by spending a night at an expensive resort. It was to be a rest day from travel, hiking, and touring. The online photos of the place were gorgeous. The room we picked was surrounded by lush forest and blooming flowers. The website stated we’d have a private hot tub. There were trails around the facility that we could use. We might see wildlife. It even included a ‘traditional Aussie brekkie.’ I told my friends about it. They all wanted pictures.
So, when we got there, and after several days of hiking along the Tasmanian coast, camping outdoors, sightseeing, and exploring little out-of-the-way places, we were looking forward to our luxury time at the resort. It cost us as much as we had spent on any place thus far.
We followed Google maps, meandering around small roads that twisted and turned, drove down a steep slope to a canyon, crossed a narrow bridge, and slowly zigzagged our way up the other side to a high plateau.
“Is this it?” I asked my husband. “I don’t see any road signs.” The pavement had stopped about two miles before, and our rental car was covered in dust.
“I don’t know, but Google says we’re on the right track,” he replied.
We continued until we saw a weathered sign with the name of the resort on it and turned onto a single-lane side road, slowing to about 5 mph due to the numerous potholes. It seemed both sides of the road had not been cleared in quite some time. After about a mile, the landscape opened, revealing several cottages and a central courtyard with a fountain that once probably spouted water.
“This doesn’t look like the pictures.”
My husband agreed. We got out of the car and walked toward a small placard, slightly askew, “reservations this way.” We followed the green arrow around a main sitting area that had seen better days. The couch cushions sank in the middle, and the air smelled of mildew. A woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun sat at a desk in the far corner of the room. She wore large, framed glasses.
“Can I help you?”
She didn’t sound Australian. Eastern European, maybe?
“Yes. We have reservations for tonight.”
She found our reservations and handed us a key. “Room seven. Check out is noon tomorrow. Breakfast is in there.” She pointed to an eating area that looked like something you might find at a low-end motel. “Goodbye.”
What about ‘have a wonderful stay’ or ‘please, let me show you your room’? My husband and I looked at each other. We returned to the car and parked it outside room seven, unloaded our luggage, and held our breath as we turned the key.
It wasn’t too bad, but it certainly wasn’t anything like the online photos. The private hot tub ended up being a bathtub with jets that didn’t work in a bathroom with no windows. The blinds in the bedroom didn’t work, and the doorknob on the door to the outside patio came off when I tried to open it.
“Well…” was all I could think of to say.
We decided to walk the trails and tour the ‘resort’ to see if anything was in better condition. The short answer. No, it was worse. Dinner was terrible—a grisly piece of meat with an underdone baked potato and canned green beans. Breakfast the next day was awful—canned peaches and stale toast. We couldn’t wait to leave.
When we drove away, my husband and I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. “Can you believe it? It’s like something out of Saturday Night Live!” my husband roared.
When I returned to work, the first thing one of my colleagues asked was, “How was that expensive resort you went to in Tasmania?” Her eyes were bright with expectation.
“It was terrible! Really bad.”
“What? Aren’t you upset? You spent so much money on that place.”
I nodded. “I know, but for whatever reason, it doesn’t bother me. From here on out, I have the worst hotel ever to compare it to.” Just thinking about the place made me laugh all over again.
My friend shook her head. “You’re weird.”
Maybe so, but you know what, so far it’s true. I haven’t stayed in any guesthouse, inn, or motel as bad as that one, and I now know better than to trust everything I read or see online.
“Peace begins when expectations end.” Anonymous
Enjoy the Passage of Time.
Sharon
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