Our Airbnb host in Delhi, where we landed at 7am on Christmas Eve in the worst bit of travel planning since a heavily pregnant carpenter’s wife headed up to Bethlehem in late December without booking ahead, had the coveted “super host” rating and a “sparkling clean” badge, but I didn’t think telling that to my wife would stop her crying. Now, my missus is not high maintenance, but, as she explained between sobs, she just needed to sleep. After a long and sleepless 18-hour journey from Dublin to Delhi via Helsinki with our three kids aged 13, 12, and 4 in tow, what was stopping her? The fact the bed didn’t have a top sheet, just something that looked like a 1970s student wall drape stretched over the mattress and some furry synthetic blankets piled on top that were perfectly soft and warm (it’s cold in Delhi at night at this time of year), but, as I found it impossible to forget after Sasha pointed it out, were unlikely to have been washed. Ever. Eventually, a wet stretchy drape was produced by our host from the washing machine, and repeatedly ironed which did almost completely dry it out. We made… Read full this story
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