If you’ve ever wanted to know what it feels like to survive a post-apocalyptic world without the apocalypse, this motel is for you.
The sign outside flickered “VAC NCY” like it was begging for help, which really set the mood. The front desk clerk moved slower than dial-up internet and handed me a key that looked like it had seen more drama than I have.
My room smelled like a mix between old socks, sadness, and a faint whisper of bleach—so points for effort, I guess. The bed had the exact bounce of a wet cardboard box, and the pillows were so thin they might’ve just been folded napkins.
The “continental breakfast” consisted of a single muffin still in its gas-station wrapper and coffee strong enough to dissolve metal. The Wi-Fi was more of a concept than an actual service, and the TV only played two channels—one static, one televangelist.
But to be fair, the place did have character. I’m just not sure if that character was a horror movie extra or a ghost with commitment issues.
10/10 would stay again—if all other options, including sleeping in my car, mysteriously disappeared.