When you stay at a hotel like The James, just from their price point, you expect a certain level of quality. If I pay well over 500 dollars for a room, I do not think it unreasonable to expect not only a quality room, but also a certain level of standard of service. Perhaps this hotel should rename itself The Lebron James, because it has about as much class as he does, and is about twice as pretentious. A handful of baby powder thrown into my face would have been a refreshing break from the level of service I received at The Lebron James. My night of hell began with the clerk, bellboy, or whatever he was, at the front desk, who faked what I assume was intended to be a British accent, but ended up as an unholy melding of Australian and New Englander. A British accent does not make you fancy, or skilled. Once I made my way past Mr. Belvedere and to my room, I was disappointed, not only by its size, which was unusually small, but also a faint scent of cigarettes. Not a strong one, but I could definitely smell smoke. Not acceptable. Then, while I was sleeping, a deep throbbing sound began to emanate from the walls. It sounded technical, mechanical, like an air conditiner malfunctioning. Despite many reassurances from the front desk, the throbbing continued on throughout the night. I demanded the man at the front desk come up and rectify the situation immediately, but from what I could tell, he never came.
