Our descent into Hotel Costes began with the doorman — or, rather, the architectural feature resembling a doorman. He was gracefully slumped against the wall, hands deeply invested in his pockets. A grunt that might have been a greeting barely registered on the Richter scale. Welcome to Hotel Costes, where enthusiasm goes to die.
Stepping inside, we was immediately transported…to Darth Vader’s chanbers. Dim lighting, oppressive décor — we half expected a Stormtrooper to ask me for my credentials. I guess “modern” is the new “uninviting”? The overall ambiance was less “warm embrace” and more “cold, impersonal interrogation chamber.”
The receptionist, dressed in what we generously assume was performance art, directed us to the terrace for a drink. She took our coats and, with the delicate grace of a linebacker, yeeted them onto a nearby chair. Clearly, coat storage wasn’t in her job description. Eye contact was optional, basic courtesy was a paid extra, and professional demeanor was still on back order, apparently.
