You know how at the beginning of the last Lord of the Rings (or was it the first? The second?). Anyway, the point is that Gandalf comes into into Bilbo’s house and is basically gigantic? That’s me in the Hotel Obispo. When you first walk in, you see all the heavy medieval stone, the narrow stairway and the doorways with their gothic arches and you think to yourself, “How quaint. How charming. How, in a word, authentic.” It is only after you settle down on the bed so short your feet dangle off the end (which you chose only after you noticed that the sole armchair is, in fact, miniature) that you realize that you are in a Hobbit Hotel. And then the nearby church bell begins to ring at indecipherable intervals and a baby cries incessantly in the park below and, with claustrophobia setting in, you seek some ventilation only to find, upon flinging open the one Hobbit-sized window, that it has bars on it. Panic sets in. Your mind races and finally settles on single question. A wish. A hope. If I go downstairs and threaten (in my broken Spanish) to write a bad review on TripAdvisor.com, do you think they’ll give us a free upgrade?

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