The deal seemed too good to be true — Central London for $55 an evening including breakfast at a well-reviewed hotel, and all I needed to do was share a rest room.
No big thing, right?
Except the hotel wasn’t a hotel in any respect.
Look — I assumed I understood the deal once I booked, that I’d be staying at a university dorm belonging to the London School of Economics, a prestigious educational institution that rents its residential halls out to the general public after they’re not filled with students.
How awful could or not it’s, crashing for a couple of nights in an empty bed at one in all the world’s top public research institutions?
I had no idea what I used to be in for.
After 25 years as a travel author, I’ve slept every which way in London, from five-star to futon within the sitting room, but arriving at LSE’s Passfield Hall on a cruddy, post-Christmas night was a recent sort of experience.
The constructing, combined over time from a staid row of listed Georgians in need of a great scrub, on the grot-covered northern fringes of bookish Bloomsbury, exuded all of the sex appeal of a bunch home.
The assorted buzzers and locks one needed to navigate to get into the waiting area, which might need higher suited a free clinic or municipal old age home, didn’t make me feel safer.
But then I assumed concerning the parents packing their students off to varsity, fairly often from halfway all over the world, and the way multiple levels of security might make them feel good, so I rested slightly easier.
Behind the staff’s blank stares turned out to be fairly friendly constructing attendants, who can have been paid employees for all I knew, but appeared to approach their work with the casual attitude of student work/study participants.
Their vibe put me relaxed, if temporarily; my reservation was honored and I used to be pointed without fanfare through one more door, to a garishly lit hallway, smelling vaguely of old bathroom plumbing of drains and lots just like the cleansing products used to cover it up.
It was official. I used to be in hell.
What I expected for $55 an evening — the starting rate for a stay of 4 nights or more, at most periods through the 12 months when the dorms are open to the general public — I’m not quite sure.
But alternate accommodation ideas were whizzing through my head before I even opened the door to my room, where the tiniest and shortest twin bed, with a mattress with barely enough support for a thin child awaited, together with a busted-up cupboard for my things, a sink and a mirror and a towel.
You’ll have seen jail cells with more charm — possibly not in the US, but definitely on this a part of the world.
But then — godsend! — there have been two items that ranked as nearly luxurious, by comparison, almost saving the day. An massive old window opened to let the fresh air in (the room was massively overheated), right next to a spacious desk setup with too many plugs, foreign converters and, i’d soon discover, lightning speed web, something you rarely get in an English hotel.
Just once I was beginning to feel hopeful, I crossed the hall to the shared bathroom.
The most effective thing to say concerning the poorly lit warren of showers and water closets — bingo, I’d found the source of that dreadful drain smell — was that there was no one else there.
That’s probably because none of us were brave enough. Then, or any time I ventured into the grim, linoleum-tiled hell, about 15 years being overdue for a whole retrofit, I used to be entirely alone, despite the fact that the hall was filled with guests from all around the world speaking a number of various languages.
Probably, all of them found out, as I did, that the sinks in our rooms had gobs of hot water and great pressure besides, and will easily be used for quick morning “baths.”
That, plus a handful of one-stall hall bathrooms made the nightmare-inducing shared facility less of a every day necessity.
And, to be fair — yes, I used to be slowly warming to my surroundings — I’ve spent double what I paid at Passfield for a standard Central London stay, hotels where I’ve barely dared step down onto the ground in bare feet, the place felt so dirty. Spartan and worn out is a really different vibe, and so long as it’s clean — which Passfield was — it’s possible to get used to, at the very least.
One among the things guests mention fairly often of their reviews of the LSE dorm stays is the breakfast, typically included in the speed.
You eat the way in which the scholars eat, in each hall’s dining room. At Passfield, given the age of the constructing, this implies you’re eating in a low-ceilinged, maze-like basement room that’s typically too filled with other hungry people to essentially feel relaxed.
But that doesn’t really matter; when you’re the sort of person — and I definitely am — who would sit all the way down to a full English breakfast in the course of a bus station if it was price eating, and let’s just say, the LSE serves up a reasonably good spread.
Still, it took me a pair trips down the buffet to determine that the staff aren’t being skimpy with the bacon and sausage and hash browns or whatever else you’re after; they’re under orders to only hand out a lot at a time, with a view to avoid waste.
But so far as they’re concerned, one staffer told me, you could possibly sit there all morning so long as you didn’t mind lining up for more helpings. If you need to eat a pound of quality British bacon before you permit for the day, have at it.
In nice weather, a big garden courtyard with tables relieves the pressure placed on the cramped dining hall; during my stay, I could only look out and think spring.
Later, I might discover one in all the nicest amenities on the premises — a kitchen only for our floor, kept neat as a pin and in contrast to the bathrooms and rooms, updated a while within the last decade; but during my visit, I spent most of my mealtimes out within the streets of London, and why not, with a lot of what the town has to supply just steps away.
The British Museum? Eight minutes on foot. Not to say Bloomsbury, right around me, all those garden squares and independent bookstores and little cafes and reams of literary history.
The heaving transport hub at Euston, just across the corner, could take me anywhere in London and beyond; the sparkling recent Elizabeth Line service to Heathrow was handy as well.
But unlike every other stay in Central London through the years, posting up on a quiet side street in this type of neighborhood gives a vibe such as you’re arriving home at the tip of the day, somewhat than heading to tourist housing.
That’s something even Claridge’s or The Dorchester could never make me feel.
The underside line
Never mind the torture mattresses, the traditional plumbing and the cafeteria ladies handing out one slice of bacon at a time — next time I’m in London, I’m booking the dorms. My back may not love me for it, my checking account sure will, and the experience is certain to be memorable. Again.
The LSE dorms will open to the general public from Mar. 29 to Apr. 28. For rates, information and booking, visit lsevacations.co.uk.
The deal seemed too good to be true — Central London for $55 an evening including breakfast at a well-reviewed hotel, and all I needed to do was share a rest room.
No big thing, right?
Except the hotel wasn’t a hotel in any respect.
Look — I assumed I understood the deal once I booked, that I’d be staying at a university dorm belonging to the London School of Economics, a prestigious educational institution that rents its residential halls out to the general public after they’re not filled with students.
How awful could or not it’s, crashing for a couple of nights in an empty bed at one in all the world’s top public research institutions?
I had no idea what I used to be in for.
After 25 years as a travel author, I’ve slept every which way in London, from five-star to futon within the sitting room, but arriving at LSE’s Passfield Hall on a cruddy, post-Christmas night was a recent sort of experience.
The constructing, combined over time from a staid row of listed Georgians in need of a great scrub, on the grot-covered northern fringes of bookish Bloomsbury, exuded all of the sex appeal of a bunch home.
The assorted buzzers and locks one needed to navigate to get into the waiting area, which might need higher suited a free clinic or municipal old age home, didn’t make me feel safer.
But then I assumed concerning the parents packing their students off to varsity, fairly often from halfway all over the world, and the way multiple levels of security might make them feel good, so I rested slightly easier.
Behind the staff’s blank stares turned out to be fairly friendly constructing attendants, who can have been paid employees for all I knew, but appeared to approach their work with the casual attitude of student work/study participants.
Their vibe put me relaxed, if temporarily; my reservation was honored and I used to be pointed without fanfare through one more door, to a garishly lit hallway, smelling vaguely of old bathroom plumbing of drains and lots just like the cleansing products used to cover it up.
It was official. I used to be in hell.
What I expected for $55 an evening — the starting rate for a stay of 4 nights or more, at most periods through the 12 months when the dorms are open to the general public — I’m not quite sure.
But alternate accommodation ideas were whizzing through my head before I even opened the door to my room, where the tiniest and shortest twin bed, with a mattress with barely enough support for a thin child awaited, together with a busted-up cupboard for my things, a sink and a mirror and a towel.
You’ll have seen jail cells with more charm — possibly not in the US, but definitely on this a part of the world.
But then — godsend! — there have been two items that ranked as nearly luxurious, by comparison, almost saving the day. An massive old window opened to let the fresh air in (the room was massively overheated), right next to a spacious desk setup with too many plugs, foreign converters and, i’d soon discover, lightning speed web, something you rarely get in an English hotel.
Just once I was beginning to feel hopeful, I crossed the hall to the shared bathroom.
The most effective thing to say concerning the poorly lit warren of showers and water closets — bingo, I’d found the source of that dreadful drain smell — was that there was no one else there.
That’s probably because none of us were brave enough. Then, or any time I ventured into the grim, linoleum-tiled hell, about 15 years being overdue for a whole retrofit, I used to be entirely alone, despite the fact that the hall was filled with guests from all around the world speaking a number of various languages.
Probably, all of them found out, as I did, that the sinks in our rooms had gobs of hot water and great pressure besides, and will easily be used for quick morning “baths.”
That, plus a handful of one-stall hall bathrooms made the nightmare-inducing shared facility less of a every day necessity.
And, to be fair — yes, I used to be slowly warming to my surroundings — I’ve spent double what I paid at Passfield for a standard Central London stay, hotels where I’ve barely dared step down onto the ground in bare feet, the place felt so dirty. Spartan and worn out is a really different vibe, and so long as it’s clean — which Passfield was — it’s possible to get used to, at the very least.
One among the things guests mention fairly often of their reviews of the LSE dorm stays is the breakfast, typically included in the speed.
You eat the way in which the scholars eat, in each hall’s dining room. At Passfield, given the age of the constructing, this implies you’re eating in a low-ceilinged, maze-like basement room that’s typically too filled with other hungry people to essentially feel relaxed.
But that doesn’t really matter; when you’re the sort of person — and I definitely am — who would sit all the way down to a full English breakfast in the course of a bus station if it was price eating, and let’s just say, the LSE serves up a reasonably good spread.
Still, it took me a pair trips down the buffet to determine that the staff aren’t being skimpy with the bacon and sausage and hash browns or whatever else you’re after; they’re under orders to only hand out a lot at a time, with a view to avoid waste.
But so far as they’re concerned, one staffer told me, you could possibly sit there all morning so long as you didn’t mind lining up for more helpings. If you need to eat a pound of quality British bacon before you permit for the day, have at it.
In nice weather, a big garden courtyard with tables relieves the pressure placed on the cramped dining hall; during my stay, I could only look out and think spring.
Later, I might discover one in all the nicest amenities on the premises — a kitchen only for our floor, kept neat as a pin and in contrast to the bathrooms and rooms, updated a while within the last decade; but during my visit, I spent most of my mealtimes out within the streets of London, and why not, with a lot of what the town has to supply just steps away.
The British Museum? Eight minutes on foot. Not to say Bloomsbury, right around me, all those garden squares and independent bookstores and little cafes and reams of literary history.
The heaving transport hub at Euston, just across the corner, could take me anywhere in London and beyond; the sparkling recent Elizabeth Line service to Heathrow was handy as well.
But unlike every other stay in Central London through the years, posting up on a quiet side street in this type of neighborhood gives a vibe such as you’re arriving home at the tip of the day, somewhat than heading to tourist housing.
That’s something even Claridge’s or The Dorchester could never make me feel.
The underside line
Never mind the torture mattresses, the traditional plumbing and the cafeteria ladies handing out one slice of bacon at a time — next time I’m in London, I’m booking the dorms. My back may not love me for it, my checking account sure will, and the experience is certain to be memorable. Again.
The LSE dorms will open to the general public from Mar. 29 to Apr. 28. For rates, information and booking, visit lsevacations.co.uk.
