Manhattan was very, very full that night. There was a shoe convention in town.
No room at any inn. Not a broom cupboard, not a penthouse. So I gave up and
decided to stay at one of the airport hotels near JFK. A quick Google and
the Radisson popped up with five different options. I could have an
executive room, or a room with WiFi, or with breakfast, or with both. For a
few extra dollars, I could even have the honeymoon package, complete with
celebratory bottle of bubbly.
It wasn’t my honeymoon so I booked the basic option for $179 (£96). Then,
since I was arriving late that night, I was directed to their flashy online
check-in service. How very efficient. I clicked here and clicked there,
requesting a room as high as possible. And non-smoking. And with the New
York Times rather than the Washington Post, thank you very much and see you
later. So far, so smooth.
So I catch my flight to New York, land at 10.30pm (3.30am my time), stand
around for several thousand hours at immigration with all the other tired
Brits, then get on the Skyrail clockwise rather than anticlockwise because I
wasn’t concentrating, take an unnecessary tour of all eight terminals and
finally get to the hotel-shuttle pick-up point. There is a phone and a
button with the Radisson logo next to it. I press the button and the hotel-
shuttle guy on the other end of the phone says he’ll send a hotel-shuttle
bus immediately. What else was he going to say?
The bus arrives and I notice two things: first, the driver has put a sign on
the dashboard outlining the extent to which any food must not under any
circumstances be consumed on the bus; second, he has an enormous stinking
bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken on the passenger seat. This wouldn’t
normally annoy me but I’m so tired and crabby and clammy from the flight
that it does... hugely. And it’s now midnight (5am for me), and I just want
to go to bed.
Halfway to the five-minutes-away hotel, the hotel-shuttle guy walkie- talks to
the KFC-bucket driver guy. We have to go back to the airport to pick up
another passenger, who turns out to be imaginary. So we turn back again, and
it’s very frustrating but I can live with it because I must by now be
literally seconds away from nice, crisp Radisson sheets. I shall brush my
furry teeth, peel off my sweaty clothes, power-shower myself to within an
inch of my life, then pass out.
Finally, we arrive at the Radisson and I literally bolt up to the reception
desk. The woman couldn’t be less enthusiastic, which isn’t what you expect
from a reputable international hotel chain. At the very least I want an
artificial smile and a “Good evening, sir, Mr Rudd, sir. Good to have you
with us.” I just get a grunt as she snatches my passport. She types my
details as if she’s trying to get into the Guinness Book of Records as
World’s Most Disaffected Employee.
Then, the bombshell.
“Sir, we’re overbooked. We’re moving you to another hotel just around the
corner. Go in that minibus.”
While I’ve been experiencing Radisson hospitality, the minibus I got off has
now been filled with grumpy English couples who clearly already know the bad
news.
“But I’ve got a reservation.”
“Sir, please get on the minibus.”
“But I checked in online.”
“Sir, get on the minibus.”
“But why didn’t the shuttle guy — ”
“Sir.”
“But — ”
The other hotel was not just around the corner. It was in a whole different
part of Brooklyn, although it’s hard to know which part because it was dark
and the driver did in excess of 75mph on a potholed parkway with a speed
limit of 55mph. Twenty white-knuckle minutes beyond the last airport hotel,
we arrived at a junction where a sign read Motel Comm Rates Free HBO Meeting
Rooms. Not a promising list of attributes.
Behind the sign stood the sort of building that makes the South Bank look
bright and breezy. This was the Golden Gate Motor Inn, the place Radisson
had deemed a suitable alternative for its guests. Inside, the receptionist
was positioned defensively behind thick bank-teller glass that had a gap at
the bottom small enough to slide a credit card but not to point a gun. I
asked for a non-smoking room and the guy said all the rooms were smoking,
which made one of the four middle-aged English couples behind me squeak with
horror.
“Fine, I’ll take a smoking room.”
“That’ll be $109.”
Room 222, denoted by a Post-it Note on the door, overlooked the Belt Parkway.
I knew it was a smoking room not just because of the smell but also because
of the holes in my blanket. The remote control for the decrepit TV was
moist. It was, quite simply, the worst place I have ever stayed. But it was
now 1am (6am for me), I had no idea where I was and I was exhausted.
I slept fitfully for five hours and at 7am the next morning, I stepped out of
my room, edged past a man with tattoos on his face leaning against a drinks
machine and went downstairs to establish where I was and how I could escape.
The receptionist couldn’t read my map, so I found a policeman in a gas
station nearby who pointed in the direction of Manhattan. I gathered my
belongings and walked 10 blocks to the railway station (no taxis round here)
and, an hour later, I was in the Big Apple. Over the next two days, three
different New Yorkers I told my story to knew of the Golden Gate Motor Inn
on Shore Parkway. “Infamous fleapit,” they said.
Further research reveals the motel’s colourful history. In February 1982,
Robert Scheff, a 34-year-old man suspected of committing a string of
robberies across Brooklyn, shot himself in Room 210 after police told him to
come out with his hands up. And in March 1998, crack-addict Guy Zappulla was
arrested outside Room 234 on suspicion of stealing his girlfriend’s fur
coat. When the police searched the room, they found not only the fur coat
but also the corpse of a prostitute, Jennifer Scarpati, hidden under the
bed. Zappulla got 25 years for second-degree murder.
Look on the Tripadvisor website and the more recent reviews aren’t encouraging
either. Although a couple suggest they had enjoyed their stay, most had not.
“Would I stay there again? With a gun to my head, maybe, otherwise... uh,
no...” reads one. And a Harrogate tourist says the following: “The third
night, things came to a head with a hooker in the next room to us and a
never-ending stream of ‘ visitors’ from early evening to 6.30 the following
morning. The noise was unbearable (her screaming and the bed head banging
loudly against our wall). We left the next morning.”
All of which makes you wonder what Radisson was playing at. Does the chain
think this is an acceptable alternative to its JFK hotel?
I asked Radisson’s Director of Public Relations, Joan Cronson, for a comment.
“We are truly sorry to hear about your recent experience at the former
Radisson JFK,” she replied. “Unfortunately, there is no excuse for this type
of guest-service experience. This is not representative of the type of
service we strive to consistently deliver to our guests... In fact, a
Radisson hallmark is our ‘Yes I Can!’ service philosophy that empowers all
our hotels’ employees to do what is needed to take care of the guest.” She
then pointed out that, as of four days before I contacted her, the Radisson
JFK was no longer a Radisson at all. And she invited me to any other
Radisson to experience the “Yes I Can!” spirit of service. Yippee!
When I asked Hilton and Starwood about their bumping policy, they both,
unsurprisingly, said they wouldn’t send any guest to the sort of motel I
ended up in. They would try to find the guest an equal or better hotel to
the one they thought they were staying in, with transfers, international
phone calls and profuse apologies thrown in. If only lesser hotels were
available, both chains would seek to redress the balance, perhaps with
refunds, extra nights or meals.
So, in the hands of other hotel chains or, if you believe Joan Cronson, any
other Radisson, I might never have got to experience the delights of the
Golden Gate. What a shame.
