In Boomer’s early years, booking a hotel used to involve a phone call or even a letter to the hotel.
You didn’t go online comparing “exclusive member deals” while sitting in your underpants eating Pringles. You phoned the hotel directly. Usually after six in the evening because the calls were cheaper then. A woman called Margaret or Breda would answer, sounding mildly annoyed that anyone had interrupted her life.
“Hotel.”
“Eh… hello there… I was wondering if you had a room for next Saturday?”
A pause.
You could hear papers moving. Maybe cutlery. Possibly a dog barking.
“We might.”
That was as much enthusiasm as you got.
Then you gave your full name, address, phone number, probably your parish, and waited for a letter confirming the booking. Sometimes the confirmation arrived after you had already stayed there.
Mind you, people only stayed in hotels for serious occasions. Weddings. Funerals. Maybe a cousin’s confirmation if they’d pushed the boat out. Nobody said things like:
“Let’s do a spa weekend.”
If your father heard that in 1983, he’d assume somebody had hit their head.
And foreign holidays? You didn’t dare organise those yourself. That was travel agent territory. You sat in a little office looking at faded posters of Benidorm while a woman with large glasses and a biro necklace reassured you the hotel was “very popular with Irish families.”
Half the time, you arrived in Spain, and the hotel looked like it had lost a war.
There’d be one completed wing, two cement mixers, and a man in flip-flops carrying tiles through the lobby.
“Sea view,” your father would say bitterly while staring at a building site.
Now we’re all travel experts.
The internet tells us we’re “smart travellers.” We save €14 and feel like financial geniuses. The booking sites practically applaud you.
“Well done, Ian. You unlocked a Secret Platinum Genius Discount.”
The hotel can spot your type a mile away.
They know you sorted by “lowest price.”
They know you clicked “free cancellation.”
They know you spent three nights comparing reviews written by people furious about towels.
So, when you arrive, smiling proudly at your bargain, they quietly hand you the worst room in Western Europe.
“Just down the corridor there, sir.”
Down the corridor.
And down some more.
Past housekeeping.
Past two fire exits.
Possibly into another county.
Eventually, you arrive at a room overlooking industrial bins and an air conditioning unit roaring away like a Ryanair engine.
Meanwhile, the people who “don’t ask the price” are upstairs drinking chilled wine while staring at the Atlantic through floor-to-ceiling windows.
But hotels forget one thing.
The Irish wife.
Usually tiny enough physically, but with the fighting spirit of a medieval warlord.
“I’m not staying in this.”
And off she marches.
Not walks. Marches.
Straight to reception, carrying the fury of every bad hotel room since 1991.
Sometimes she sends you down instead.
“Tell them it’s our anniversary.”
“It isn’t.”
“Tell them anyway.”
So, there you stand at the reception looking like a man making a hostage video.
“Any chance of maybe… another room? My wife’s a bit disappointed.”
The receptionist looks at you with pity. You’re sweating. Your confidence is gone. Your marriage appears to depend entirely on window positioning.
Then somehow it works.
Next thing you know, you’re in a suite the size of Croke Park.
There’s a balcony.
Bathrobes.
Tiny bottles of things nobody uses.
You return to your wife carrying the new key card as if you had won an Olympic medal.
For one evening, you are a hero.
You stand on the balcony looking at the sea, thinking:
“I handled that well.”
Then morning comes.
Breakfast.
You come back proudly balancing coffee, sausages, eggs, toast and enough pastries to feed a small village.
Your wife takes one bite. The other half surveys the breakfast room silently.
“It’s not as nice as the last hotel.”
And there it is.
Back to reality.
Still, years later, that’s the stuff you remember.
You remember the rows, the room over the bins, the fake anniversary, and the other half going into battle at the reception while you stood nearby looking emotionally defeated.
That’s what modern hotel stays are about.
