I felt like someone punched me in the stomach. It was a tiny, dingy little apartment. Our bedroom, with two tiny cot-like beds was so small that we could not lay our luggage on the floor- it had to stay upright. The bed linens were threadbare. There was no air conditioning. Jill warned us that there were no screens on the windows so if we opened them for air at night, we would be eaten alive by mosquitoes. This was especially disgusting for Tara, because there are no mosquitoes in Ireland and she liked it that way.
This was not the luxurious villa that we had looked forward to. Without speaking Tara and I looked at each other and new we had to find a way out.
The hinge squeaked as the hotel clerk, Jill jerked on the rusty door handle.
We shoved our luggage against the wall and squeezed into the closet masquerading as a bedroom. Tara frowned at the threadbare sheets and stained pillowcases on the twin beds, while I jiggled the thermostat, praying for a refreshing blast of cool air. A pitiful trickle of stale air coughed into my face and the musty smell turned my stomach.
I glanced hopefully at the dirty windows. Jill said, “Better not open the windows, since we don’t have screens. The mosquitoes will feast on your pale Irish skin all night and cats might come inside. Here’s your key.” What happened to the tropical vacation villa pictured on the Internet?
Tara turned to me with panic in her eyes, and I knew we couldn’t spend one night in this dump. Would my credit limit accept another charge? How could we find a decent room during peak tourist season?