New Zealand – Tales and Travel

Welcome to the Hotel California, but it’s a hospital, not a hotel. Nonetheless I instantly thought of that Eagles hit song from 1977 when I entered this bizarre place.

Helio Marin in Vallauris, Francé, aka Hotel California in this post

„This could be heaven or this could be hell“

…And she showed me the way

There were voices down the corridor

Thought I heard them say

…”And I was thinkin to myself

Welcome to the Hotel California

Such a lovely place. Such a lovely place.“

My room: Old, shabby, paint chipped walls, a big hole in the ceiling. Ahh— but the view from the 4th floor balcony is splendid with the Mediterranean Golfe-Juan in one direction, and the Bay of Cannes in the other. “A postcard view,” as a visitor said.

I am here for therapy following my third femur surgery since my great fall last June (see a previous post, My Sorry Story). Helio Marin, this facility, has a sterling reputation as a rehabilitation center, although as I looked around that seemed hard to fanthom. I was seduced by the view and figured I could tolerate the depressing room — until I pulled back the plastic curtain and glanced into the minuscule bathroom. NO TOILET.

I completely freaked out. “ There is no toilet in the bathroom,“ I shouted to the aide who had led me to my new home. That is true, she said, but there is a toilet down the hall. What? This is 2024 and the rooms do not have toilets. I was incredulous, thinking back to student days traveling with “Europe on $5 day.” That was then — some 60 years ago. I am old, too old for down-the-hall bathroom treks.

“I cannot stay here.“ I was upset, angry, bewildered. “ I will call the „Cadre“ (big boss),“ the aide said. Madame Cadre (MC) appeared. Medium length, straight dark red hair. Glasses. Stern demeanor. No welcome smile, but a piercing stare meant to instill fear.

I was adamant. I insisted that I needed a room with a toilet, that I could not make the trips down the hall. “Why not? You can walk.“

“Lady, I am in a wheelchair. I can’t walk. That’s why I am here.”

She stated that this was the only room available. Take it or leave it, but she could put me on the waiting list for a better room with toilet.

I was frantic. I called the hospital where I had the recent surgery. They had arranged for me to come here. Please find me a room somewhere else, I pleaded. The woman in social services insisted this was the best place for my recuperation. Just be patient. You will get a better room, she said. The other facility she had recommended had no rooms.

I was stuck. It was either stay here or go home. I knew I was in no condition to go home and take care of myself.

I did not unpack, hoping I would have a better room in a few days. I gazed into the bathroom one more time. No shower either. That too is down the hall. Nothing to do but retreat to the balcony and let the view soothe my troubled soul.

Not for long. MC returned. “What are you doing out there? It’s dangerous, forbidden,“ she screamed. „Get in here.“ I dutifully wheeled myself back inside. This was too much, like a bad dream.

I later learned the balcony, a wide structure with the rooms opening onto it, is like everything here: Old. It is wooden, rotting and in danger of collapse. You can tread lightly at your own risk, but only on the initial portion. The area near near the edge is off limits. When MC departed, I disobeyed and ventured to the edge, the best place for photos. I was not the only one.

The next day I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair, yet there was a problem. I had neither towel nor wash cloth. You are expected to bring your own. How was I to know? During previous hospital experiences, they had been provided. Someone scrounged up a towel for me. I asked an aide if I could have a disposable wash cloth. I know they come in packages of 100. Hospitals use them.

„I have to ask the Cadre“ he replied. Madame’s answer: NO! I was not entitled to a disposable wash cloth. I obviously had not endeared myself to MC. I would be punished.

Originally a plaque supported my broken femur. It too broke and has been replaced by a rod.

According to the Helio Marin welcome brochure, for a fee you can have laundry service. I asked my friendly morning nurse team about it. They only knew of a washing machine and dryer for the use of patients. But, they would ask the Cadre. I told them not to bother, that she did not like me.

“Don’t worry. She does not like anyone.”

Bottom line. Brochure lied. There is no laundry service. The washer and dryer only work with payment by credit card. When I checked in, I had been advised to leave valuables (cash, jewelry, credit cards ) with the office for safe keeping. I did.

Now I had to go back and sign out a credit card to do my laundry. What about detergent?

You can buy it at “Snack”, I was told. Wrong. Snack has no detergent for sale. My dirty clothes had to wait for my friend Karen to bring me detergent.

Not every trip is paradise perfect. I’ve had my share of travel mishaps. In Buenos Aires, three gold chains were ripped from my neck (my fault for wearing them). I missed out on an excursion to the Brazilian side of Iguaçu Falls because I did not have a Brazilian visa.

I never made it to the Brazilian side. No one told me I needed a visa.

The trip had been prepaid, but the travel operator failed to tell me that as an American I needed a visa, and there was no time to get one. $100 out the window. In New Zealand, I was so excited about the chance to swim with dolphins – something I’ve always wanted to do. Alas, I swam in frigid water, but nary a dolphin to be seen. (I’ve written about these catastrophes in previous posts. “Misadventures in New Zealand,” Apr.27, 2012; “Cry for me Argentina,” Oct. 30, 2010; “Iguaçu Falls,” Nov. 19, 2010 )

Last fall husband Bob and I had some frustrating experiences thanks to GPS. We are slow to get on the technical bandwagon, but finally decided to purchase a GPS gadget for this drive trip. All went well in Germany. Without it, we might still be driving around looking for some of those off-the- beat- and -track hotels I had booked.

When we got to northern Italy and were trying to find my friend Trina’s apartment on Lake Varese, another story. Suddenly we were crossing the border into Switzerland as directed by our GPS mentor. (She’s British, and her pronunciation of Italian, French and German street names is abominable, but good for a laugh.)

GPS got us to Bellagio on Lake Como, but failed us thereafter.

This can’t be right? What’s with this wacko woman directing us? What’s with GPS? We stopped at the nearest gas station, and were told she was all wrong. Reverse directions and go back to Italy. We eventually found Trina, but with a map.

After the Italian/Swiss mishap, I verified GPS instructions with a map. Until we were driving back to France on the autostrada in northern Italy, a stretch we had driven many times. I relaxed. All seemed well. Then out of the blue we ended up at the toll booth for the Frejus Tunnel, 39 euros, no turning back. Strange. We had not remembered going through this tunnel before. Perhaps our GPS genius knew a shorter route? We had no choice but to continue.

It’s a long, long tunnel. When we emerged, I checked the map. Holy S—! Where are we? We had driven far out of our way to get home. And, that GPS crackpot was leading us farther astray. So much for advanced technology.

Time for another gas station inquiry. I was obviously distraught, thinking about all those extra miles and hours lost. The kind woman in the gas station took pity on me and explained that we had two choices, one route via Grenoble, much longer but all on the speedy autoroute, and one over the Col du Galibier, a slow but scenic mountain pass. We opted for scenery. It was an adventure, up and up a twisty road into the wilds of mountain tops with no civilization in sight, but incredible views. It was getting dark and this was not a road for sissies, so we took no time to stop and ponder the surrounding beauty. But, it’s a drive to repeat. Sometimes bad leads to good.

Lots of gold shops in Singapore, but it was in a camera shop where I made my mistake..

And, sometimes, as with the jewelry theft in Argentina, you learn from the disasters. Such was the case in Singapore. I needed a few accessories for my new camera. This was the beginning of a long trip, so best make the purchases here. We paid a visit to a camera shop in Singapore’s Chinatown where a very eager and fast-talking salesman convinced me to buy, not only the needed accessories, but a few other items – including a very costly filter, which, he cleverly demonstrated, would do wonders for my photos. I was taken in and made the purchases – over $400 worth.

As we ate lunch, I pondered the purchase. Something did not seem right. Should they have been that expensive? I went back to the hotel and checked the items on Amazon. I had been royally ripped off—the total for the items at Amazon prices would have been no more than about $50. How stupid I was.

Not to be outdone, I printed out copies of all the Amazon data and marched back to the photo shop for a confrontation. I was all smiles and friendly and took photos of our chatty salesman before presenting the evidence of his deceit. I threatened to put his photo and the shop on Facebook with a warning if he did not give me a refund. The manager, another slick operator, appeared. He was wary and not about to risk bad publicity. I could have the refund, but first he wanted to delete the incriminating photos on my camera. I obliged, took my money and ran.

Back at the hotel, I related the experience to the desk clerk who had helped with the copies. Never do business in Chinatown, he said. And, never be so dumb and shell out big bucks for items if you have no idea of the going price.

Tour of the wondrous Sydney Opera House was a trip highlight. But, it was downhill after that.

No trip is without some minor aggravations. In Sydney, when we purchased our tickets for an opera house tour, we were given coupons for a free cup of coffee valid until 5 p.m. at the opera house café. We showed up at 4:40 pm. “Sorry. Too late. We had to close early today.” No big loss. Back to the hotel, but by bus as it was raining. We waited and waited. Finally bus number 53 came. We proceeded to pay the driver for our passage. ”Sorry. No tickets sold on buses after 5 p.m. “ They must be purchased ahead at a ticket office, he explained, but we weren’t about to track down the office, which, by then, probably would have been closed anyway. O.K. We’ll take a taxi. We wandered from street corner to street corner and hailed many a taxi. All full. Distressed and soaked, we gave up and trekked in the rain back to the hotel – a good hour’s walk.

Not our lucky day, but far worse could happen. It’s all part of the adventure that can make travel a challenge – and an educational experience.

Black Bean Pumpkin Soup was the overwhelming favorite at a lunch I recently prepared for friends. Several requested the recipe which is listed in the column at right.

Comments on blog post and recipes are welcome. See “Leave a Reply” below under Comments. Subscribers also welcome. Don’t miss future posts. Click on Email Subscription at top right

Category: New Zealand

Hotel California

Vacation Fiascos