Welcome Inn

The cheesesteak counter in the lobby was, somehow, the most stable part of my stay. The meat was aggressively salty, the cheese was melted into something existential, and the bread was damp. I ate it standing up, looking around, and meant it when I say it was grounding after everything else. The room's smell was a heavy mix of sweat, mildew, damp carpet, and a towel that seemed to have a past. In the bathroom, mold showed up in black, green, and a vaguely orange shade. The shower curtain was stiff with age, there were unidentified fluids in several places, and the floor squished underfoot. I took a fast shower with my eyes open. The bedbugs kept me itchy and awake most of the night. The roaches were already there to greet me, in numbers, from elders to young ones running up the walls. They acted like locals who owned the place. I didn't see them hide, and I slept lightly around them. Later, the thin walls carried an intense, frightening scene from next door. It felt unsafe and exposed, with no privacy at all. I lay frozen, heart racing, hearing it all through the drywall. It was deeply uncomfortable, not entertainment, and the memory still tightens my chest. By checkout I trusted no surface and had left behind some skin and a piece of my innocence. The roaches watched me leave, as if they'd outlast us all. Five stars for consistency, honesty, and the audacity of calling this hospitality. Welcome Inn gave me a story and hypervigilance. I will never return, but I won't forget.