A Night in a Brothel (With Three Kids in Tow)

Because travel gives you the stories you could never make up.

There’s no doubt about it — when you’re on the road, you collect stories. And when you’re travelling with children, you collect even better ones. This is one of those tales I’ll remember for the rest of my life, and it began quite innocently on a long road trip around Europe with our four‑, six‑, and eight‑year‑olds.

Each child had a job.

Brett was in charge of the budget, carefully recording every expense in his little notebook.

Demi helped me with the itinerary.

And Tom, at six years old, was our official Room Inspector.

This was the era before the internet and online bookings. Each time we arrived in a new town, Tom would trot upstairs to inspect the room while the rest of us waited in reception. He took his role very seriously. His checklist included:

·       Smell the bathroom

·       Check the toilet

·       Look for bedbugs

·       Test the pillows

·       Rate the room out of ten

He was so reliable that eventually we stopped checking the rooms ourselves. If Tom gave it a thumbs‑up, that was good enough for us.

And then came that night.

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Landing in Patras, Greece — in a storm

We arrived in Patras on an overnight ferry in dreadful weather. The crossing had been rough, we were hours late, and by the time we docked it was close to 11 pm. It was dark, stormy, and we had nowhere to stay.

If you’ve ever been to Patras, you’ll know the port has improved a lot over the years — but in the 90s, it was rough.

Gary took the boys, including our trusted hotel inspector to look for a hotel while Demi and I waited with the bags in the ferry terminal. They were back much sooner than expected, Gary grinning like a man who had news.

“Good news or bad news first?” he asked.

“Start with the good,” I said.

“The good news is I found us a hotel only a few minutes’ walk from here. They’re making up a room for us, and they know we’ve got the kids.”

“That’s great,” I said. “So… the bad news?”

“There’s only one bed, so we all have to share.”

“Well, that’s fine.”

He paused. “The really bad news is… they charge by the hour.”

I stared at him.

“By the hour?”

He nodded.

“Are we thinking the same thing?”

“Yes,” he said, and we both burst out laughing.

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Welcome to the red‑light district

We walked through the rain down a dimly lit street until we reached a building with the inevitable red light glowing above the door. A woman in her fifties opened it warmly and ushered us inside.

The foyer was full of women — all of whom immediately fussed over the children. One produced a bag of sweets, another a tray of baklava. Someone handed Demi a towel and gently dried her hair. They spoke enough English to chatter away, helping the kids with their bags and making them feel completely at home.

Then our hostess led us upstairs — up creaking stairs, past doors opening in all directions — until we reached the top floor.

Inside was a large room overlooking the street. It wasn’t in bad condition at all. But the centrepiece was impossible to miss:

A huge round bed covered in black satin sheets with red satin pillows, and mirrors on the ceiling.

The children’s faces lit up like Christmas. The moment the door closed behind the lady, they launched themselves onto the bed — sliding, bouncing, squealing with delight. To them, this was the most magical room they had ever seen.

We decided that for this one night, we would all sleep fully clothed under our sarongs and leave at first light.

After half an hour of chaos on the satin sheets, we finally settled — three children lined up in the middle, Gary and I on either side, all of us trying not to think too hard about the mirrors above us.

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Breakfast with the ladies

At dawn we crept downstairs, hoping to slip out unnoticed. But the foyer doors opened and two of the women greeted us warmly. They insisted we join them for breakfast — toast, coffee, boiled eggs, more sweets for the children, and even a small present for Demi.

Their kindness was genuine, unexpected, and unforgettable.

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The twist — courtesy of Tom, Room Inspector

That evening, after a long bus ride, we checked into a perfectly respectable hotel. Tom went off to inspect the room while we explained his role to the amused staff.

He returned with his notebook and a proud smile.

“The bathroom is clean, the bed is good, and I give it eight out of ten,” he announced.

The manager laughed. “Is this the best room you’ve ever stayed in?”

Gary and I exchanged a look. We could see exactly where this was going.

Tom shook his head.

“Oh no,” he said earnestly. “The best room we ever stayed in was last night.”

The manager blinked. “Really? Why was that?”

Tom replied, “It had black satin sheets and a mirror on the ceiling. I wish all hotels had satin sheets and mirrors on the ceiling.”

It took several minutes to convince the wide‑eyed manager that we did not, in fact, make a habit of staying in brothels. Within moments, the entire reception staff knew the story — and Tom became a minor celebrity.

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What travel teaches us

That night in Patras reminded me of something important:

Kindness comes in many forms, often from the people you least expect.

Travel will surprise you, humble you, and gift you stories you’ll carry for a lifetime.

And as for Tom — well, that was his first night in a brothel.

I’m fairly confident it was also his last.