A weekly ode to the joys of moaning about your holiday.
"I'm sorry, we don't appear to have your booking." Quite possibly the last words you want to hear when you're checking into a hotel and precisely what my wife and I were told a couple of weeks ago. The Great Auckland Power Cut Of 2018 was into its third day and, growing ever more frazzled, we decided to ditch our dark, cold home and get a hotel for the night. Rushing to the inner-city hotel as best we could through the early evening traffic, we'd have about half an hour to dump our bags before a brisk walk to Spark Arena to see Nile Rodgers and Lionel Richie in concert.
Standing at the counter of the hotel, the man at reception was staring at his computer screen, tapping the keyboard and looking altogether confused. How hard can it be to check two people in who have a reservation and booking number? Well, when the booking number is not for the hotel but for a private Airbnb residence, evidently quite hard.
That's right, the hotel room we'd secured from the website lastminute.com and paid $230 for was in actual fact an Airbnb apartment within the hotel. Checking back over our booking, nothing on the website mentioned Airbnb at all. Nothing said "private apartment" or "private room" and there was every indication this was a hotel room in, funnily enough, a hotel.
Realising the poor man at reception was blameless in our predicament, we looked again over the details of our booking for any clues. Eventually we found two. Curiously, there was a sentence we'd missed saying no one would be at reception. Seems odd for a hotel.