Rolling down without incident along a straight-as-an-arrow, well-lit road right into the center of Aqaba, we set about looking for a hotel. Reaching an intersection located quite close to a neon-shining street, we started to dumbly look around to no avail: for the first time, a track laid right to our destination, and even the address, didn't help us. A few attempts to fish out information from the bystanders failed: most were clueless, and one sent us god knows where, a kilometer away from where we were. We skillfully chose not to follow the advice, being too seasoned, and sensing a mistake, even if it was made with a desire to help.
Some young guys passing by deigned to lend us a hand, starting to google everything possible on their smartphones (quite the same as you'd see on any random young guy in Daugavpils), but eventually they pointed us to a completely different hotel, claiming that it was the one we needed, just the name had changed.
And only in this beautiful hotel (Cedar Hotel) a well-dressed, groomed, and pomaded young man dressed to the nines, in shiny shoes, a suit and a tie, managed to help us. With a wave of his hand, he summoned a genie-helper, that is, a level-one worker, who in a couple of minutes led us exactly where we needed to be through junkyards and courtyards: when we were walking in circles searching, we were just ten meters short of reaching it.
Although the elevator was out of order, in all other respects the Amir Palace hotel simply blew my mind with its cleanliness, glamour, and decor. Wood, huge reproductions, tiles, and pleasant little decorative elements made up the picture of what proudly called itself a “boutique hotel”.
