My brother has this fascination with old hotels; he likes to hunt them out and arrange family gatherings at them, as often as he can manage. Sometimes this is all right, as at last Thanksgiving, when he arranged for us to stay at the Blackstone Hotel in Fort Worth.
Then there are the ones like the Luther Hotel.
The Luther is a huge, ramshackle beachfront hotel, an old-time summer resort built in 1902 that has survived many storms and one bodily relocation more or less intact. What hasn't happened to it is any kind of modernization. The general decor seems to be frozen somewhere around 1940, with some more recent furniture in the common areas, but little later than 1970. The second-floor hallway--three stories, no elevators--had balding *orange nearly-shag carpeting*, peeling back at the joins and just ripe to trip someone up. It's something like staying at your grandparents' house, which hasn't been redecorated since your parents were kids, and that your grandparents can't see well enough to realize everything in the house is threadbare and moth-eaten. Travel writers kindly call the hotel "unchanged" and "quaint;" with the injection of two or three million dollars' worth of remodeling and infrastructure updates it might aspire to quaint. My own impressions range from "dilapidated" and "shabby" to "firetrap," 'cos I sure didn't discover any fire escapes or other such essentials.
The outside, in best seaside tradition, needs painting and has needed it for years. (People in coastal communities seem to have a love/hate relationship with paint; the love--and the paint--goes onto their boats and stuff that has to go in the water, and everything else gets left.) The hotel has thirty-eight rooms and suites; there's also a row of eight stuccoed motor-courts on the edge of the property, but they've been allowed to go down so far that they're now beyond repair, and the managers, an elderly couple who've run the place for some years, say they'll have to be torn down soon--although I think "soon" is probably being expressed in geological terms, and they'll actually fall down first, the way things in small towns do.
We had what passes for a "suite," and I suppose it is, by fishing resort standards. It had one minuscule and one reasonable-sized bedroom, two airliner-size bathrooms that were carved out of the bedrooms, which is *why* our bedroom was tiny, a nearly full-size kitchen (with non-working range but working fridge), and a common entryway/"sitting room." I don't think there was a stick of furniture in our bedroom that dated later than World War II, the 1970s velveteen loveseat in the sitting area had an enormous rip in one arm that someone tried (and failed) to conceal with strategically placed pillows, and our bedstead was so wobbly that I went in hourly fear of it collapsing. Air conditioning was courtesy of window units which did, for a mercy, cool efficiently. Our room had a period ceiling fan--"period" meaning it has one speed, high.
Our shower may have been the most ridiculous piece of the whole experience. Besides the hot and cold taps, there was an ordinary gate valve spliced into the pipe just behind the (leaky) shower head, and that was what actually controlled the water flow. It's handyman engineering--while it may do the job, it's not elegant and certainly not the best solution.
Despite all this, the hotel was full for the July 4th weekend, and it seems to be one of those places people keep coming back to, perhaps for sentimental reasons. Guests actually talk to one another in the lobby and on the front porch--the hotel does have a two-story-tall front portico, complete with white-painted slat-back rocking chairs. The Luther must have some appeal that I'm missing, though; I can't see how anyone could possibly be staying here for the creature comforts.
To cap the experience, there are no room phones, and damn sure no Net access. read more