French twist

They had me at hello.

Yes, I had just gotten off the phone with the world's worst receptionist (thank you, Inn at St. John — I didn't want to stay that close to the sketchy Greyhound station anyway). But when I called the Portland Harbor Hotel to book a room for our anniversary, I didn't expect such friendly service. Joshua was his name. And he kicked ass. I guess that's what three bills a night buys.

But when we arrived, expecting a three-bill room, we were a bit underwhelmed. The location — in the heart of the Old Port — could not be better. The service was exceptional. And the hotel has an amazing courtyard, which is perfect for sipping white wine (when it's warm outside).

But the room? Not so much. The mishmash of toile and chintz would indicate they were aiming for Provence. Instead, it seemed a bit faux-vence. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was in my grandmother's French-country kitchen circa 1985. Normally, I wouldn't care, but when you're on a romantic getaway, visions of grandma are the last thing you want floating through your head.

Oh, and when it's your anniversary, the less you want to leave the room, the better.

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