Last Thursday I was standing in the lobby of the IBIS Orly Hotel, in Paris, naturally. It was almost midnight, my flight from Casablanca arrived late, my checked-in luggage didn’t arrive at all, and I was suffering from a particularly vicious case of traveler’s runs. I was not a happy camper.

“No madame, you don’t ava reservashon,” the reception clerk said.
I knew I had a reservation, I made it myself. I told him to look for it again.
We went like that back and forth until I remembered that somewhere in my carry-on I had a booking confirmation, which I had prudently printed out. I opened my bag and started to dig. Why is it that the paper you are looking for is always at the very bottom of the pile, huh? I found my booking and triumphantly shoved it in his face. The clerk carefully read the printout and started to furiously type on his computer. I told him to take his time, because I had to go to the bathroom.

When I came back he was looking at me with a strange expression on his face.
“Madame, errrr, how can I say eet… eet eez still 9th October 2008. You ava reservashon for 10th October,” he paused, “2009.”

He let those words sink in and showed me the printout. It stood there as clear as could be – 1 room, 1 night, October 10, 2009. I either lost my mind when I made the booking or was totally delirious with fever from the food poisoning in Marrakech.

I asked him if there were any rooms available. He gave me a Gallic shrug. Fully booked. Just to make sure he understood, I repeated again “any room, doesn’t have to be the kind I booked. I’ll take anything.” He shrugged again.

OK, it was my turn to shrug. Fine I’ll just sprawl myself here in the big chair in the lobby, I am too tired and too sick to go anywhere, and besides it’s already past midnight and I have to be up at 5:30AM anyway. But first, I had to go to the bathroom again.

When I came back he told me that miraculously a room became available. A double and for a 100 euro, but I could have it if I wanted to. My original booking was for 75 euro, tax included.

The room was nice. Anything would have been nice at that point. It was big enough for me to stretch out my arms without touching the opposite walls. It had a queen size bed, fluffy pillows, comfortable mattress and a sparkling clean bathroom. The shower was miniscule – do those dopey hotel designers really think that people can fit in a 17-inch hole and not break their elbows while washing their hair? Oh, and just so you know, the shower curtain was also of the “economy length” – so short it was impossible to run the shower and not flood the whole room.

The breakfast buffet cost 8 euro and was quite adequate, even though I could only much on a dry piece of bread. It had a selection of sweet stuff (rolls, muffins, croissants), dairy (milk, cereal, yogurt), cold cuts and cheeses and fruit. In retrospect, paying 8 euro for a cup of black tea and a slice of toast was overkill, but considering my state of mind and otherwise at that time, I wasn’t going to argue.

Mercifully, there was a different clerk on duty when I checked out.

Photo courtesy of Ibis, because my camera belongs now to the street urchins roaming the outskirts of Casablanca.