Welcome to LOLbnb

Most places greet you with words. LOLbnb greets you with a laugh. Not a rude laugh. Not the sort that points a finger. It’s more the gentle, rolling chuckle of a place that has already seen tomorrow, decided it was absurd, and moved on. The laugh reaches you before the building does, which is impressive considering the building is large, solid, and determined to look like it has opinions about planning permission. The guest arrives just after noon, which is the most optimistic hour of the day and therefore a risky time to enter LOLbnb. She is young, well dressed, and travelling with the quiet confidence of someone whose suitcase cost more than several minor appliances. The suitcase glides behind her on wheels that whisper wealth. Her shoes click with purpose. Her outfit suggests she has somewhere important to be later, or at least wants people to think so. At the gate, a man in a perfectly pressed uniform raises a hand. He does not say hello. He laughs. Not loudly. Just enough. Then he smiles and says, “Welcome to LOLbnb.” She pauses. Just a fraction. This is not in the travel blogs. Before she can reply, the gate opens with a polite mechanical sigh, as if even the machinery finds the situation faintly amusing. Two steps in, the security guard stands up straighter than necessary. He laughs as well. A different laugh. Slightly nasal. Deeply sincere. “Welcome to LOLbnb,” he says, scanning her handbag with the seriousness usually reserved for international diplomacy. The scanner beeps. The guard nods, satisfied. “Shoes are excellent,” he adds, unprompted. She smiles, uncertain whether to thank him or apologise. Inside, her suitcase goes through the luggage scanner. The machine hums, clicks, and—she could swear—chuckles. The attendant beside it laughs outright, as though the suitcase has just told a very good joke. “Welcome to LOLbnb,” says the attendant, returning the suitcase with care and what might be affection. By now, she has begun to notice a pattern. At reception, the desk is polished to a mirror shine. Behind it sits a receptionist who looks like someone who has mastered spreadsheets but abandoned them for comedy. He looks up, meets her eyes, and laughs. This one is warm, practiced, and devastatingly confident. “Welcome to LOLbnb,” he says, sliding a keycard across the desk as if it has been waiting for her all its life.

She signs in. The pen laughs. Or perhaps she imagines it. At LOLbnb, imagination is encouraged and rarely corrected. The lift arrives promptly. It laughs on arrival, a soft electronic giggle. Inside, the mirrored walls reflect her from all angles: composed, elegant, faintly confused. As the doors close, a recorded voice clears its throat and says, cheerfully, “Welcome to LOLbnb.” By the time she reaches her floor, she has accepted that this is happening. The corridor carpet is plush and serious, which makes the laughter from somewhere overhead deeply unsettling. Or comforting. It’s hard to tell. Her room door opens easily, as though pleased to see her. Inside, the room is impeccable. Crisp linens. Thoughtful lighting. The sort of chair that suggests it has heard secrets but would never repeat them. There is no laughter here at first, and for a moment she wonders if the building has finally decided to behave. Then she hears it. A small laugh. Her own. It escapes without permission. She walks into the bathroom. The mirror is large and unforgiving, the kind favoured by hotels that believe in truth. She looks at herself: the perfect outfit, the excellent shoes, the designer suitcase now parked obediently by the bed. She laughs again. This time, properly. Out loud. She leans closer to the mirror, raises an eyebrow at her own reflection, and says, softly but clearly, “Welcome to LOLbnb.”

The mirror, if mirrors could be said to do such things, seems pleased. At LOLbnb, you do not stay because it is luxurious. You stay because something inside you recognises the laugh.

And once you’ve laughed with it, you’re already checked in.