Sleep Inn & Suites

My 7-Night Stay at the 'Hotel California' of Greenville, IL (You Can Never Leave, and the Keys Don't Work (One Star, but only because Zero isn't an option on the keypad. Surprise.) Let me tell you about my week-long "business trip" to the luxurious Comfort Inn in Greenville, IL. I say "business trip," but by the end, I felt less like a traveling professional and more like an unpaid intern in a psychological experiment about human endurance. Let's talk about the check-in process, which should really be reclassified as an endurance sport. The lobby was emptier than my soul after night three, yet I stood there, a solitary pilgrim at the altar of nothing, waiting to be acknowledged. When the lone employee finally emerged, I should have known the cosmic joke was just beginning. My room key, it turns out, wasn't a key. It was a suggestion. A gentle request to the door that it might consider opening. Over the course of seven nights, I had to have this flimsy piece of plastic "rekeyed" 28 times. Twenty. Eight. Times. I became so familiar with the front desk clerk that by night two, we weren't just on a first-name basis; I knew her dog's name, her opinion on the new Taco Bell menu items, and that she was having a crisis about her 401k. On my fifth trip down on night one, I found her on a "break." A break! I stood there, key card in hand, questioning every life choice that led me to that exact spot, while she was presumably out back, touching grass and contemplating her escape from this very hotel. But wait, there’s more! Because a hotel stay isn't complete without a little splash in the pool, right? Well, let's just say the pool had "floaters." And no, I don't mean the kind you lounge on with a piña colada. I mean the kind that requires a biohazard suit and a priest. It was a scene that would make a sewage treatment plant worker wince. We’re not talking about a pool party, we’re talking about a pool party foul of epic, unspeakable proportions. The ambiance was also a key amenity they clearly invested heavily in. The hallways and elevator car offered a signature scent I can only describe as "Eau de Cigarette Despair." It was the rich, earthy aroma of a freshly smoked Marlboro Red, with a lingering top note of "picking a wet butt up off the asphalt to smoke it down to the filter." It was the smell of a gambler who lost everything on a horse race and has given up on fresh starts. I finally entered my room and was instantly transported. Not to a relaxing oasis, but to the set of a community theater production of The Golden Girls. I swear I heard a faint "Picture it, Sicily, 1922..." on the air. The sofa looked like it had been beamed directly from 1987, and the décor was so outdated it was ironically hilarious. I half-expected a VHS copy of Dirty Dancing to be on the nightstand. But the pièce de résistance, the main event, the headliner of this traveling circus of incompetence, was the comforter. My bed was adorned with a stunning abstract art piece, courtesy of what I can only assume was a previous guest’s toddler, or a very incontinent ghost. It was a piss stain of such majestic proportions that I had to call down to report it. And then I waited. And waited. I called again. "We'll send someone right up!" They didn't. After twelve holds—yes, twelve, I counted them like a prisoner marking days on a wall—I gave up. So here I am. Day three. I am sitting on the 1980s sofa, wrapped in a three-day-old towel that has achieved a sentient level of crust, drinking a warm can of Stag beer (the official beverage of "I've given up"), and wearing a leotard that would make Jane Fonda in her prime weep with jealousy. It's the only thing I have that's clean. The service sucked. The décor was worse. The pool has a biohazard warning. My door is a suggestion box. And I've somehow become a character in a Tennessee Williams play. If you're looking for a hotel that will make you question your sanity, your career choices, and the very fabric of reality, this is the place. You won't just be a guest; you'll be a survivor. P.S. On my way out, as a final "thank you" for my patronage, I noticed on my nightstand a complimentary gift. A souvenir to remember my stay by. It was a postcard. A glossy, beautiful, sun-drenched postcard of Greenville, Illinois. It featured a charming downtown street, a picturesque park, and a blue sky so vibrant it looked Photoshopped. It was a stunning visual representation of a town I had not seen, nor been able to access, because I spent the entire week locked in a cycle of getting my key rekeyed, waiting for towels, and fending off the existential dread of the pool floaters. It was like a prison releasing you with a framed photo of the outside world. Thanks for the memories! I’ll be sure to frame this next to my warm Stag can as a monument to the biggest lie I’ve ever been told!!!!

At first glance this place looks great! Its clean, breakfast was fine, they had the basics. The room was nice. Its a place I would stay at again. Im guessing that maybe they are having a problem with a maintenance position. The door in our bathroom was warped and and needed replaced. The treadmill in the gym would just stop during my run. Once it got hot, I couldn't get it to start again. I ran 1/4 mile this morning. The microwave in our room may have been made before I was born. Everything necessary worked OK, but if things don't start getting upgraded this place could go down quickly. Im giving them the benefit of the doubt with a 4 star rating.

Bed Bugs & Ticks in a pet free non smoking room - I stayed on night and woke up to a tick crawling right in front of my face and then when I got up found bed bugs all over the bed and under the pillows. I did throw the sheets back prior to climbing into the bed and there was no sign of either. GM has not responded to anything - Front desk clerk told me “most guest bring ticks with them”. It has been multiple days with zero resolution other than “we can comp the room” forget all the luggage that was thrown out and lost day of vacation because of dealing with this. DO NOT STAY HERE!!!