Every now and then, I come across a town with a wonderful antique feel. Take New Amsterdam, in Guyana. Even my hotel felt like a relic from an earlier age. The Hotel Aster was built like a clipper, and had hardwood decks and a thick cream hull. Inside, it was so dark and cramped that I had to wriggle my way to my room.
Every now and then, I come across a town with a wonderful antique feel. Take New Amsterdam, in Guyana. Even my hotel felt like a relic from an earlier age. The Hotel Aster was built like a clipper, and had hardwood decks and a thick cream hull. Inside, it was so dark and cramped that I had to wriggle my way to my room.
Like all good ships of its age, there was no unnecessary luxury. My cabin was lime-green and contained only a washstand and an old iron cot. It was said to be the cheapest hotel in town, and was run by lady called Maylene. She, however, wasn’t always there, and, at night, the only other person around was a hefty woman known locally as ‘The Fat Girl’. But, when Maylene did re-appear, she was always pleasingly Victorian. She was prim and dainty, and wore a colourless frock and lace-up shoes. ‘You’re kindly welcome, sir,’ she’d say, as if the last hundred years hadn’t really happened.
