“Welcome to the Bike Hotel.”
I was almost, one-hundred percent sure, he’d made this up. Until now. Looking at the bike on the outside wall. Well, there was always inside.
Which – to my surprise – had bikes everywhere. At the check-in desk. By the bell-boy. (Did he ride your luggage to your room?) In front of the Bike Cafe. And in the room. Bicycle headboards. Ironing boards. Pictures on the wall.
He had actually been telling the truth. Stripe-me surprised.
“What do you think?”
“Wait till you see the Disco Ballroom!”
I’m pretty sure, ninty-nine percent, he’d made this part up.