I genuinely wanted to love Always Inn. The location is perfect, the reviews are glowing, and the owner's pre-arrival emails -- a quirky, warm guide to San Clemente's thrift stores and beach trails -- charmed me before we even arrived. It felt like exactly the kind of place we were looking for.
We arrived on June 12, a milestone weekend for our family, with a confirmed reservation, a paid booking, and two pre-arrival emails that said nothing except how much they were looking forward to hosting us.
The owner, Freda, told us she had given our room to another party. She had known about the conflict since the Saturday before -- nearly a full week. She didn't cancel our reservation. She didn't send an email flagging a problem. She says she called; I received nothing. Why on earth did she not cancel our reservation as soon as she noticed the double-booking? Why hold our $503.80 for a week, give the room away, and only cancel once we'd already been turned away at the door?
What I remember most isn't the missing room. It's how cold she was. There was no "I'm sorry this happened." No softness at all, even looking at my tired six-year-old and our old three-legged dog standing in the doorway after a long drive. Instead, for forty minutes, we were met with a kind of shifting blame that left me genuinely disoriented -- it was our fault for not calling back (we received no calls), our fault for not listing a pet on a form with no pet field, our fault for not knowing a "protocol" I've never encountered in twenty years of travel writing. Every time we tried to just state the facts calmly, something would change slightly, and I'd find myself second-guessing what I knew to be true. That feeling -- of being talked out of your own reality by someone who refuses to just say "I messed up, I'm sorry" -- was, honestly, the worst part of the whole day.
There was also an anger to her that I still can't fully explain. Not irritation -- something closer to seething, like we'd caught her at the worst possible moment and she resented us for existing. At the time we were too thrown off to name it. Looking back, it's the strangest part of the day: she was the one who'd made the mistake, who'd known about it for a week and said nothing -- and somehow, she was the one who seemed angry.
Her proposed remedy, repeatedly offered, was breakfast. On the house. For a $503.80 two-night stay we no longer had. She mentioned, more than once, that breakfast in San Clemente could cost upwards of $60 -- as though that figure might recast what had happened. Why on earth would we want to have breakfast here after the treatment we received?
At one point she got on speakerphone with an Airbnb customer service rep, trying to figure out if some listing she'd found was pet-friendly. It wasn't -- my husband read it right off the screen -- but it took her forever to get there, and her tone with the poor agent got sharper the longer it went on. The whole time, she didn't explain any of this to us. She'd just sit there clicking and gesturing at her laptop, annoyed, while we stood around having no idea what was happening or whether there was any hope.
She eventually gave up on that and called a nearby hotel -- and this time found us a room. But she mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that we'd owe their pet fee. When I asked if she could just cover it, given everything, her tone snapped instantly: "No way," she said. "Uh-uh." Several times. When I mentioned my work as a travel journalist, she said, sarcastically, "Well, what haven't you done?" My husband, a former AAA travel professional, told her this was the most unprofessional interaction of his career. She told us we didn't know what we were talking about.
Before we left, I asked her to put it in writing -- to confirm by email that she couldn't honor our reservation. She agreed, eventually. The email that arrived that night wasn't an apology. It opened with "sorry," then spent the rest of its length on a list of things she said I'd done wrong -- not called her back, not mentioned the dog, refused her offers -- and closed with "Hope this clarifies what you need." On the drive home, we got a formal cancellation notice. A full week after she says she first knew about the double-booking. If she knew that early, why didn't she cancel then? It's worth asking again: Why hold our $503.80 for a week, give the room away, and only cancel once we'd already been turned away at the door?
We drove two hours home. Tired, deflated, and feeling confused and sad-- wondering why the innkeeper was so cold, so angry, so inhospitable. The inn itself did not look as nice as we'd hoped, so we at least don't feel like we missed out on much.
Would not return. Would not recommend. read more