harry K.
The place was filthy, and half the equipment barely worked. I spent half an hour trying to scrub the least burnt pot in my great-grandmother's kitchen, so I can't say anything good about it. The bed was so uncomfortable it felt almost life-threatening, and the floor still stuck after I washed it twice. I won't even get into the bathroom, except for the fossil of a washing machine in there. It was disgusting, covered in meters of limescale, and of course you had to pay extra for these luxury services. The kitchen was gross too, and I wouldn't recommend using anything in it. When I saw the oven, I nearly had a heart attack. We got rid of the same one from my grandmother's place a week earlier. I'm not saying that one was in better shape or even worked, either. Plaster was coming off the walls, with torn, dirty wallpaper covering some attempted repairs. There were a few times the handle came off the shoddy socialist-era faucet in the toilet, and I scalded my hand. Dirt everywhere, much of the equipment out of order, and everything left over from socialism.
