Down and Out?

Is there some kind of irony associated with reading Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London in a 5-star hotel in Pisa? Should I feel strange about enjoying the passages where he describes feeling so hungry after not eating anything for five plus days that he begins a descent into madness which includes hallucinating having a conversation with the cockroaches marching up his wall? Is it wrong to derive enjoyment from stories of scam after scam and endless pawnshop visits and sleeping on the floor of a friend's slum hotel with a coat wrapped around one's shoes as a pillow while you're drinking a fine Barolo accompanying salmon tartar with fresh burrata on an air-conditioned terrace? Would Orwell have been upset to know that his vivid descriptions of living amongst the destitute did little more than help me to feel hungry enough after both my primo and secondo to further enjoy a Dolce and Caffè? Perhaps more importantly, how did Orwell (or Blair) feel when he went to his aunt in Paris for financial help during this period? Similar to how I do now? Did it push him to empathize with his "true" down and out compatriots? Does it do something like that to me? Are there enough questions in this post? How about now?