The one star Esteghlal Hotel

'Salam… Salam'.

It is around 5 o'clock in the morning when I knock on the door of the one star Esteghlal Hotel in Shiraz.

'Salam. Salam'.

Eventually a balding head pokes out of the window two floors above.

'What you want?' (clearly my Farsi accent still needs a bit of work then.)

'You have a room?'

'Yes'

'Can I check in?'

'No…

…Too early. I sleeping. Come back later', the balding head suggests.

'But I've just been on the bus from Yazd. I'm really tired. Please give me a...'

'You from where?'

'England'.

'All right mate. 20 dollar'.

A bit of street to window bargaining then ensues.

'Ok 15 dollar'.

The squat night receptionist grudgingly opens the door and leads me up a dilapidated staircase. He watches me struggling with my suitcase and seems to relish pointing out the obvious…

'Heavy'.

He shows me into my room and then casually asks…

'You want first to drop kids off at the pool? Bathroom this way'.

I can't believe what he's just said. Limited English and then he comes out with that.

'Err, no I'm ok thanks'.

'Good night mate. Have good sleep', he adds graciously.

And then squeezes my nipple.

Did he really just do that? I'm too disoriented and tired to either reply or object. I close the wafer-thin door and fall immediately onto the wafer-thin bed.

Eight incredibly long hours trying to get comfortable and/or sleep on the overnight bus from Yazd to Shiraz has taken its toll. I spent the journey dispelling the illusion that spreading your body over two plastic seats – because there is no one sitting next to you – must logically be more comfortable than sitting on just one. By the end of it I had proved that no amount of awkward contortions and leg/arm/buttock position combinations can ever make it comfortable. So it is a welcome relief to be finally in bed.

But then I realize I am not alone. And I can hear everything…

Every morning throat clearance. Every passionate manoeuvre. Every unconscious fart.

Room number 26 has already been to the loo twice. Surely they don't need to go again. Please turn off that bloody music, it's only 6am. Was that really someone being sick or just coughing their guts up? Now is not the time for a marital dispute. Please…

Sleep is going to be tough. But I bury my head in my pillow and try. I'd forgotten the joys of budget travel...

That afternoon I take a shower. Before realizing that it is not the sort of hotel to provide a towel. I reach instinctively to the empty towel rail and then conclude that I'm either going to have to drip dry or abuse one of my few remaining clean t-shirts.

But it was in Yazd that my backpacker status was initially questioned. I was branded a 'flashpacker'. If I hadn't lost all credibility from the diehard travelers when I walked into the Silk Road hotel courtyard with my Tumi suitcase rather than rucksack, I certainly did when word got round that I travel with my own goose down pillow.