There was nothing wrong with The Dragon Inn. It was clean, secure and had a separate shower cubicle within the bathroom, whereas most places have a habit of just putting a shower head somewhere above the toilet or sink. It had hot water, and the altitude of the 7th (6th) floor meant the cockroaches were tiny and generally scared of us - which hasn't always been the case.
But when my parents arrived in town, they treated us to a room in their hotel too for the next few days. It was time to pack up and head across town to the Ritz. Shunning the option of a taxi, we thought it would make far more sense to load our bags on our backs, and march through China Town in the midday heat, take the monorail to a station about ten minutes from the Ritz, choosing not to see the stop nest door to it, and then walk there.
We executed our plan with 100% success thus arriving in the opulent reception, soaking with sweat, looking rather downtrodden, with huge bags on our backs and fronts and a carrier bag or two in our hands for maximum gypsy effect. The doorman, to his credit, smiled under his moustache but wasted no time in opening the door for us as we slipped between the parked limos. The smack of the ice cold air on our faces was to die for as we entered reception. This was after all, 5 star air conditioning. Having forgotten to wipe our feet on the door mat, in our haste not to block the door, there was nothing to do but traipse across the luxurious Persian rug that filled the expanse of the lobby. Strolling past the fruit bowl and under the chandelier towards the reception desk, it was clear the receptionists didn't know what to make of these wayward backpackers who had obviously found themselves in the wrong part of town. Three of them busied themselves shuffling paper while failing to hide their enjoyment at our apparent intrusion while the forth politely asked if there was anything she could do for us. Resisting the urge, sadly, to put on my best gruffest drunkard Scot impression I said I was here to check in. Slowly the cogs started to turn, and sure enough, to everyone's surprise, there was indeed a booking under my name. The bell boy ran up to take our bags, and the others behind reception gave up their charade and stood blatantly over girl 4's shoulder to see for themselves this preposterous booking. After the formalities we were then escorted by the duty manager to our room, and invited to settle in.
Our room was unsurprisingly fantastic. We had an enormous bed, a living room space with two piece suite, plasma screen and DVD, a study and a massive bathroom. We thought we had hit the Jackpot and then we found out we had a personal butler!
But when my parents arrived in town, they treated us to a room in their hotel too for the next few days. It was time to pack up and head across town to the Ritz. Shunning the option of a taxi, we thought it would make far more sense to load our bags on our backs, and march through China Town in the midday heat, take the monorail to a station about ten minutes from the Ritz, choosing not to see the stop nest door to it, and then walk there.
We executed our plan with 100% success thus arriving in the opulent reception, soaking with sweat, looking rather downtrodden, with huge bags on our backs and fronts and a carrier bag or two in our hands for maximum gypsy effect. The doorman, to his credit, smiled under his moustache but wasted no time in opening the door for us as we slipped between the parked limos. The smack of the ice cold air on our faces was to die for as we entered reception. This was after all, 5 star air conditioning. Having forgotten to wipe our feet on the door mat, in our haste not to block the door, there was nothing to do but traipse across the luxurious Persian rug that filled the expanse of the lobby. Strolling past the fruit bowl and under the chandelier towards the reception desk, it was clear the receptionists didn't know what to make of these wayward backpackers who had obviously found themselves in the wrong part of town. Three of them busied themselves shuffling paper while failing to hide their enjoyment at our apparent intrusion while the forth politely asked if there was anything she could do for us. Resisting the urge, sadly, to put on my best gruffest drunkard Scot impression I said I was here to check in. Slowly the cogs started to turn, and sure enough, to everyone's surprise, there was indeed a booking under my name. The bell boy ran up to take our bags, and the others behind reception gave up their charade and stood blatantly over girl 4's shoulder to see for themselves this preposterous booking. After the formalities we were then escorted by the duty manager to our room, and invited to settle in.
Our room was unsurprisingly fantastic. We had an enormous bed, a living room space with two piece suite, plasma screen and DVD, a study and a massive bathroom. We thought we had hit the Jackpot and then we found out we had a personal butler!
