If hell ever freezes over, I guarantee you it will be inside the Dimond Center Hotel. I have stayed in some questionable places before—gas station parking lots, the floor of an airport, a tent in a bear-infested forest—but never in my life have I experienced the sheer, unapologetic absurdity of this place.
It all started when I checked in, and the front desk staff greeted me with the enthusiasm of a DMV employee who just stubbed their toe. They took one look at me and decided, “Yes, this one belongs in the dungeon.” So they assigned me to what I can only describe as a haunted shoebox—no heat, no space, just an icy void where my soul went to die. This wasn’t a hotel room; it was a meat locker with furniture. I half expected to find a frozen woolly mammoth under the bed.
When I dared to ask for a room that didn’t double as an arctic survival challenge, they basically told me, “Tough luck, buddy. Embrace the frost.” They were fully prepared to let me turn into a human icicle and display me in the lobby like some kind of cautionary tale for future guests.
With no other options, I did what any desperate, shivering traveler would do: I left and found shelter in a manger. That’s right, a literal manger. I spent the night curled up in hay, sharing warmth with a reindeer who seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being. When a wild animal shows more hospitality than a hotel, you know something has gone terribly wrong.
At checkout (which I assume they expected me to do posthumously), they still had the audacity to charge me as if they hadn’t just tried to reenact the Titanic iceberg scene with my actual body. I walked out feeling like Jack Dawson before he sank.
If you’re into frostbite, emotional trauma, and a free trip to the afterlife, by all means, book a room. Otherwise, save yourself and sleep in a Denny’s booth.
Would I stay here again? Only if my other option was a snowbank—and even then, it’d be a tough call.