Lorna's Miscellany: Not the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

Sometimes it pays to go off-highway and not stay at the Best Western/ Travelodge/ Holiday Inn/ Day’s Inn hotel. Other times, I’m not so sure. As one of my Sunday school teachers once said, travelling by Holiday Inns is the best way because it is reassuringly predictable. Those weren’t her exact words, but that was her meaning.

At the time I thought it was sage, if unadventuresome, advice and rather uncharacteristic of someone who, to my mind, was the epitome of glamour and hence, I then thought, more apt to relish the unexpected. But I suppose glamour requires at the very least good lighting and a hair dryer. I am not sure what any of this had to do with religious training except tangentially: the Christmas story comes to mind, for she and her husband, the Sunday School superintendent, travelled to Florida each winter. I expect there was always room in their inns.

Anyhow, to get back to our recent travels, we left our dessert crumbs behind at the previously mentioned Irving gas station and continued on our way, hoping to make Woodstock, New Brunswick for the night. A sign on the highway near there advertised the Stiles Motel where rooms were on offer from $69.99. Intrigued by the possibility of a bargain hostelry, we turned off the Trans-Canada and followed the local road to downtown Woodstock, a pretty little town spread along the St. John River. At Main Street, only right turns were allowed so we had to drive south. This turned out to be the wrong direction. We turned around and went north and were about to give up when behind an overhanging tree branch, I spied the sign for the motel.

It must have been in its heyday in the mid-50’s – certainly before the new highway left it in the dust, as it were. An aerial photograph behind a ficus plant in the office showed brightly coloured cars with fins and clever landscaping consisting of arrow-shaped beds pointing to the hotel. But now, the Mugo pines had grown so tall they obscured the sign advertising the restaurant, road widening had destroyed the arrow gardens, and the "No" of the Vacancy sign was actually unplugged and cob-webbed.

Sadly our room was like we were: tired. The walls were done in swirly stucco painted a glossy white, like a wedding cake gone awry. Outside, the window had strips of brown paint on either side intended to look like shutters from a distance.

I was puzzled by the initials in the iron work: no S for Styles. Who had been the original owners? My next thought was oh dear.

The current proprietors are from Ontario: an East Indian couple who seemed rather overwhelmed. Apparently, it is their first foray into the hospitality business.

However, we chatted a bit while Greg signed the register. I asked if they by chance served dinner – the pale blue and dusty pink restaurant was both retro and enormous – and would they have Indian cuisine. Yes to both questions! Things were taking a turn for the better. We walked around the neighbourhood for a while and returned for our evening meal, along with a family from Québec and several motorcycle aficionados.

We were seated in the glassed-in porch where, unfortunately, none of the windows opened. It was an unusually warm evening with only floor fans to move the air. One had to be coaxed into operation by our host’s flicking the vanes. With persistence, it finally began to swirl. No Kingfisher beer, alas, but we were served what turned out to be a really good “Indian platter”: dal, lentil soup, basmati rice and a curry – a welcome change from the usual highway fast-food. Who knew!

I hope they make a go of it. One is always tempted to give unwanted advice, so I didn’t, but if I had, I would have encouraged them to capitalize on their strengths: a very friendly welcome and great Indian cuisine. Add to that menu. Renovate a couple of rooms at a time; set aside a couple of rooms for people with pets. Paint the wooden chairs. Clip the bushes, and let the glass brick show forth in all its mid-century modern splendour.