There are many joys of travelling. Getting lost, getting sick on local food, losing passports and money... and exploring hotels. While the guests of Hiltons and Marriotts usually know what to expect, searching for more wallet-friendly accomodation can bring unforeseen surprises – and memorable experiences.

My motto when looking for a hotel is simple: "Reasonably close to the centre and as cheap as possible." Greediness first, comfort later – if at all.

Such approach does not necessarily result in nights spent in cramped, dirty, cockroach infested holes, haunted by the smell of unwashed bed clothes, roar from the bar downstairs and scurrying of mice feet inside fragile walls. (Though the mice wouldn’t actually be unwelcome.) Quite the opposite, sometimes it can lead to glimpses of truly unexpected luxury.

When visiting the ever-picturesque Kamyanets-Podilsky with its mighty medieval fortress, me and my "tour manager" MacRua paid for a cheap night in an unremarkable, sleepy hotel, patriotically named "Ukraine". Upon unlocking the door of our room, we found ourselves in a generously spacious suite, consisting of a bedroom, living room with comfy armchairs, and a bathroom bigger than my bedroom at home. (I almost felt like an exhibitionist showering myself in such a huge open space.) As if it wasn’t enough, the living room sported a small balcony – what can make you feel more posh than leisurely sitting on a balcony late at night, drinking wine and watching the stars? The only problem with such hotels is that you are almost reluctant to leave in the morning – perhaps that’s why they switched off water the following day, to effectively drive us away.

Nevertheless, there are other kinds of memorable experiences. The hotel in Odessa looked perfect in every aspect. Newly renovated. A five-minute walk from the railway station. And named "Tokio Star", evoking the images of the setting sun glinting off windows and of elegantly-clad geishas serving fresh tea or sake, depending on the guest’s tastes.

Well, the hotel wasn’t in a pagoda – it was in a former tram depot. But newly renovated it surely was – to reach the reception, you had to step over construction workers toiling on the floor with saws and hammers. Although we had booked a room in advance, the young girl manning the reception seemed uneasy and asked if we wouldn’t mind a windowless one. We would. She wandered here and there for a while and finally triumphantly returned with a key and unlocked the room number 1, right next to the reception. The door opened, revealing the sight of... the toilet bowl. The necessary equipment proudly stood there, right in front of the entrance, not separated from the rest of the room by any door. All right, there was at least a partition between the beds and the, um, bathroom, so you weren’t lulled to sleep by the sight of the shiny white bowl, but despite that using it felt like pissing right on the head of your companion. An ideal room for couples who want to share absolutely everything...

The rest of the tiny room was almost competely occupied by a double bed. No table, no chairs, just a small fridge huddling in a corner, a small TV set on top of it, and yes, a window. A glass pane, some 30 x 20 cm, on the floor level. Well, what can you expect in a tram depot – let’s call it industrial charm.

As I looked at the bed, admiring the birds and plants on the bedclothes – Japanese motive! – a sudden curious realization crept into my head. It was a bed for two, there were two pillows... but no matter how hard I tried, I failed to count more than one blanket.

"There is only one blanket," MacRua politely pointed out to the receptionist.

The girl looked confused, but after a moment she departed and returned with a blanket no. 2. We politely thanked her and I was ready to wrap my blanket in the delicate Japanese cover. Only then I realized...

The receptionist had already left the room and resumed her place at the desk, but MacRua obligingly set out on the mission and approached her, announcing: "We could also use one more blanket cover." No more smile from the girl, but once again she returned with the desired item.

Finally the beds were made, the warm Odessa sun was glinting off the tiny window pane. I looked around the room... and looked once again and peeped under the blankets... I turned to my companion: "We only have one towel."

When MacRua approached the receptionist and presented our request, the girl seemed to have a hard time refraining from a brutal murder. And when she re-appeared with another towel, she’d surely have prefered to throw it at the cheeky scoundrel instead of just handing it politely.

"But look at the luxuries," I said when MacRua returned to our room with the hard-won trophy. "We have a fridge and a TV!"

"Yeah," came the reply. "And we only have one socket. So I’m afraid it is either the fridge OR the TV."

Some places go for minimalism at its best.

And I’ll better refrain from elaborating on the conclusion my companion reached and firmly clung to, despite my protests and my pointing to the lack of any supporting evidence. When you have a tiny hotel room where the guests are supposed to feel no shyness in front of each other, with a bed for two but only one blanket... you cannot be anywhere else than in a house of ill repute.

The next stop on our journey was the beautiful, old Lviv. The hotel room looked like your stereotypical hotel room with nothing remarkable about it – limited space, two beds, bathroom. Nothing extraordinary, nothing to complain about. Tired after a night spent on a train, I eagerly stepped under the shower. I turned the water on and enjoyed the warm streams washing away my weariness... when suddenly the bathroom door shuddered under a ferocious banging.

"Hey!" called MacRua from the other side. "You are flooding the room!"

Quick as a flash, I turned off the shower, dressed and peeped out. There was a mighty puddle spreading all the way from the bathroom door to my bed and disapearing underneath.

Luckily, they were not greedy with towels in that hotel, supplying four pieces of fluffy snow-white cloth. Despite MacRua’s complaints ("You are ruining the lovely thing!"), I used one of them to wipe the lake from our floor, making the poor towel lose its snow-white charm, and to add insult to injury I spread it as a doormat in front of the bathroom door, somehow filling the gap under the door and preventing further floods. Three nights were spent in the room without any other disasters.

Upon leaving the hotel, MacRua snatched the towel-turned-doormat and began to furiously wash it.

"Don’t bother," I advised. "It’s their job, not ours." Despite that MacRua went on washing until the towel shone bright white again, and then carefully arranged it on the radiator. We took a last look around and proceeded to the reception to return the key.

The receptionist – a young guy for a change – took the key, but instead of bidding us farewell, he asked MacRua to follow him back into the room. I waited in the lobby, brimming over with curiosity. Minutes ticked away. They were not returning. Finally, they appeared in the corridor again and this time the smiling guy wished us a pleasant journey and let us go.

"What was that supposed to mean?" I inquired.

"He was checking the room," came the reply. "He looked around. Inspected the bathroom. Peeped under the blankets. Looked under the beds. And then... took the towel from the radiator and carefully examined it against the light!"

I would rather not imagine what could have happened if the meticulous guy had found our dirty footprints on the towel. In an old town like Lviv, hotels could be equipped with dark dungeons containing a fine assortment of instruments of torture to use on guests who dare to taint the pristine offerings of local hospitality. Or the hotel staff simply locks such offenders in the cellar and forces them to wash hotel laundry for a week.

After all, travelling should be an adventure.