I don’t know what it is about Kimpton hotels, but I appear to be on a personal vendetta tour with them. The last time I stayed at the Palladian Kimpton in Seattle, I was deeply, spiritually offended by the bathroom setup. This time, at The Madera Kimpton in Washington D.C., I somehow managed to turn myself into a full-blown slapstick routine. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been such a chaotic disaster before, and that is truly saying something.
Let’s begin in the bathroom.
The layout is… creative. The sink and mirror are outside the bathroom, which is excellent if you want to do your skincare routine in peace while your significant other is showering. Gold star. Unfortunately, this means the actual bathroom itself is approximately the size of a decorative shoebox. I am not built for small spaces. I am emotionally and physically a bull in a china shop. Add steam, heat, and mild claustrophobia, and suddenly I am shampooing, shaving, and panic-soaping like I’m competing in some sort of Olympic speed hygiene trial.
Also: no bathroom fan. None. So now we’re marinating in hot shower steam like dumplings.
Eventually, I decide getting dressed in this human terrarium is a bad idea and burst out of the bathroom dramatically, only to immediately get into a full-on wrestling match with a camisole. The straps went rogue. The fabric rolled up into itself like it was trying to return to the earth. I was losing. Badly. My boyfriend, crying actual tears of laughter, suggested I abandon the camisole entirely and wear one of the animal-print bathrobes provided by the hotel.
Record scratch. Animal. Print. Bathrobes.
Obviously, I had to investigate.
Friends, when I say these robes were cheetah and giraffe print, I mean committed. Bold. Aggressive. Slightly haunted. They looked like they had stories. Stories I did not want to hear. The only thing that stopped me from putting one on was the sudden awareness that hotel bathrobes have probably lived entire lives before meeting me, and I simply do not need that energy in my day.
After mocking the robes (as one does), I went to do my hair and realized something alarming.
There was still shampoo in it.
Like… fully sudsy. Bubbly. How had I missed this? Was I dissociating in the shower? Who can say.
Back into the shoebox I go, only to realize I had also shaved exactly one leg the first time. Incredible efficiency. Truly unmatched competence. So I rinse my hair again, shave the forgotten limb, and exit once more.
Except there was STILL shampoo in my hair.
At this point, I started questioning all my life choices.
Eventually, I emerge clean, clothed, and emotionally depleted, collapse onto the bed, and think, Finally. Peace.
Narrator: There was not peace.
“Why is there blood on the bed?”
Reader, it looked like I had sacrificed a small woodland creature. I had somehow sliced open the back of my leg while shaving and only noticed when the sheets began resembling a low-budget horror movie prop. My face hurt from the sheer amount of face-palming.
I patched myself up, did some light crime-scene cleanup, and thanked the universe that this particular Kimpton offers a free wine hour. Because honestly, nothing has ever felt more deserved.
In fairness, this was not a bad hotel. The bed was dreamy. The sheets were excellent. The staff was lovely. They even had little food and water bowls at the entrance because they’re pet-friendly, which is objectively adorable. This was not a bad hotel experience.
This was a bad hotel guest experience.
Would I stay here again? Yes. Absolutely. I would simply try not to spiral into a full-body existential meltdown in the bathroom next time.
Growth. 🌱
