BEST HOTEL REVIEWS EVER WRITTEN - YOU WON'T BELIEVE THIS!!

You may not believe it - but the two reviews listed below are both for the same Hotel in Santa Cruz, CA!!    Read and enjoy! 


Hotel Solares (formerly Days Inn)

600 Riverside Ave, Santa Cruz, CA

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2.9

74 reviews

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Stefan Reich

2 months ago  (June 2016)

Loved the waffle maker in lobby, and very convenient location with nice rooms and decent staff. Situated perfectly for quickly reaching the boardwalk, downtown/ Pacific, or a nearby spot to buy heroin. Please though, a warning: if you insist and then bring back that fire to Days Inn to shoot it and then your lightweight buddy ODs and you don't have broad and easy access to Narcan because we live in a backwards police state, but instead this Oaxachan dealer that just seemed to materialize said ice cubes in the rectum would revive them. Apparently a lot of total morons in Santa Cruz believe this idiocy, all while the county health center gives out free naloxone kits and training to addicts and their friends and loved ones. But big surprise, now you just have a dead friend with wet pants. And you casually allowed an illegal alien heroin dealer to essentially sexually assault your homies corpse. Because YOU were the one hiding the dope all along. Well whatever you do, please don't try to hide the rapidly bloating meat sack under the mattress for the next poor guest to discover. I doubt them waffles are quite as satisfying after unexpectedly finding a dead junkie in bed with you, either. Best bet, skip the heroin and stick to the giant dipper.

James Good

12 months ago  (August 2016)

If you ever and to feel very down on your luck and are in need to wallow in depthless misery, do I have the setting for you! This is the room that every movie director emulates when wanting to show the true ugliness of humanity. Also a great backdrop for slasher films and snuff flicks.

The foul impoverishment of the greasy worn carpet welcome you as you shove past the corroded door lock. An ugly push of stale air comes from the inner reaches of the room reminds you of the grungy street wino who got to close while begging for your change at the boardwalk. Every stick of overly used furniture screams seedy impoverishment and neglect. Then you notice the walls. The filth! I am an old man now, but even in my youth these walls would have been in long need of a scrubbing and paint job. They now fall somewhere between a Jackson Pollock canvas and the neglected gas station toilet wall off of old desert highway 66.

You get what you pay for has never been more true. Only here they demand that you well overpay for what they will not provide for you. After an exhaustive search of the “room”, as well as two phone calls to the front deck trying to find why the air conditioner is not working that you finally realize that such modern refinements would never find their way into this less than third world accommodation. You now have a choice to either leave your windows open all night to allow in some air and a wave of mosquitoes, or baste in your own sweat mixed with the carpet mung that swells up around you with each slippery step across the befouled carpet. I hope that no one reading this thought that the screens over the windows would surely keep out the bugs. No gentle reader, such advancements in hotel room accoutrements are still years away from this stinking pit.

I eventually fell asleep listening to banjo boy shriek at his parents about some horrible grievance from the room above. It must have been a particularly severe wrong that he had endured to lash out for a full 45 minutes before darkness took me. This troupe of full throated, I can only guess, hog callers could well and easily be heard through the paper thin walls of my cell. I assume that their overly small bladders where the result of generations of inbreeding as they each took turns thundering across the drum skin of the floor into their bathroom to then flush in an all night marathon of toilet emergencies. They apparently have never heard of the “yellow is mellow” drought lingo.

To its credit, the plumbing in this squalor pit is something of a marvel. I’m sure the same sound met Dr. Martin Luther King just before the water cannons struck as what met me with each explosive flush of the surrounding toilets.

“get out of the f@#king toilet” – dad
“I’M GOING POO” banjo boy
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM- sound of web feet thundering overhead
“I SAID----“ - dad, cut off by explosion
WHOOSH!! “I WON’T COME OUT”
“GET OUT!!” “YOU WILL!” - “NO, AUGHHHHHHGHAAAA”

WHOOSH
“I’M STILL GOING!!’
WHOOSH
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM – more webbed feet running back and forth
WHOOSH
WHOOSH
“I HATE YOU!’ “AHHHUCHGHHAAGH!!!” “NOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOO!”
WHOOSH
BOOM BOOM BOOM

Did I tell you about the pool? Or I should say the remnants of past pool that adorned the center court yard. Empty, dirty with broke glass strewn across the bottom. A perfect touch to this crown jewel of Santa Cruz hotels. You notice this on your way to the breakfast line. The staff have figured out a way to save money. See, if you have 100 people staying at your hovel, then only put out 10 small yogurts and replenish these slowly so that long line forms while 90 people wait for you to slow walk 10 more yogurts, (or really any item) so that those at the back will be disheartened and seek out food in a less horrible place.