Vacancy.com Blog Schloarship

This is an official entry for the vacancy.com blog schloarship contest. To view contest or enter, go to www.vacancy.com/schloarship.

If I had stumbled to Vacancy.com before I had moved into my current apartment, I’d have elected to move into The State House on Congress. It is a luxury apartment complex in the middle of the South Congress District of Austin. The district is five blocks of Austin’s funky idiosyncrasies—a row of streamliners serving local food, a row of vintage and consignment boutiques, and plenty of tastemakers to keep the ambiance young and trendy. SoCo is Austin’s famous weirdness incarnate. The neighborhood is a great place to blow off steam, especially after a mundane workweek. It has the charm of old Texas architecture but has been renovated for the taste of modern business owners with the savvy to “Keep Austin Weird.”

I’ve always fallen for the “location, location, location!” cliché when it comes to prime real estate. The State House on Congress area is the best Austin neighborhood in which to live. It hasn’t grown into the monstrosity of Lamar Boulevard, where the sky high, floor to ceiling glass window, multi-million dollar condos snub the landscape. These apartments characterize Austin’s two emerging characteristics, which is to gentrify and modernize, the other to retain its charming identity and keep itself humble. Although my hometown Los Angeles is often regarded with awe and infatuation (some Texans joke that Dallas is striving to be Los Angeles), its constant struggle with balance is laughable. Like Austin itself, The State House seems to have mastered the art of cool all while keeping itself from losing its hospitable nature.

Storytelling

Art by Hideaki Kawashima

Last week, the entire hotel staff grouped together for a one-hour meeting. The company as a whole hosts these meetings about twice a year in an attempt to inspire its troops by making it appear that our jobs are more important than they actually are. The idea, in this meeting, was that ten groups of about eight people each would go around and share stories of how they performed excellent guest service. Then, these groups would pick one story, write it down on a piece of paper, and hand it to the general manager for her to read aloud.

Naturally, these epic meetings tend to split the staff up by department. My group, for example, was comprised of the hotel’s “pawns” (with the exception of the awkward Eastern European saleswoman who looked like she regretted sitting with us immediately after she did). While the housekeeping clique looked confused and were attempting to decipher the presentation back into their native languages, my group couldn’t stop it with the sarcastic remarks and snickers. We are not treated as human beings on a daily basis but as shells of human beings, and therefore had a difficult time telling a story without a tone of contempt. After some uncomfortable deliberation, one of my colleagues recounted when she had help one of our deaf guests find a strobe light alarm clock. We deemed the story sufficient for minimal participation and ended up talking some shit instead.

The general manager went around the meeting space collecting these stories. She read a few aloud, expressing how delighted she was to have such a hospitable and kind staff. We, she explained, were the reason why the hotel kept the reputation it did. She didn’t notice the grunts, groans, and sighs that circulated the front desk table.

The meeting itself was called “Storytelling” and from now on, we are encouraged to share our hospitality stories on pieces of blue sticky paper and post them in the back office. It’s been almost eight days since this meeting, and I haven’t seen a department post one.

Art by Hideaki Kawashima

Although I understand the appeal of sharing positive guest experiences, the ones the people like to hear are of the moronic, impossible, and downright infuriated individuals we encounter every day. I’ll begin my post with two positive guest experiences. You’ll notice that they’re quaint and straightforward. They arouse warm feelings for a moment, but you’ll find yourself scanning through them for the later part of this entry. The horrendous encounters that will conclude this post are the ones you’ll remember and laugh at.

I do wish that I could visit my general manager in her office, take a piece of licorice from her welcome bin of candy, and tell these stories. I wish I could post them in the back office for everybody to read. What’s holding this hotel together, I’d explain, is not our positive experiences, but our negative ones.

Guest: Hello, I'm checking in.

Me: Okay, I see you're staying in a king bed for two nights in a non-smoking room. The room was booked with the 

[State] Vegetable Association group rate.

Guest: Yes, that's right.

Me: So...can you get me a pretty good discount on lettuce?

Guest: (cannot respond because he's laughing so hard)

- - - - - - -

Guest: Hi, there. This is our first time visiting [City]. Can you recommend some things to do?

Me: Sure, you can____________, ___________________,_____________________, and _____________. Here's a map of the area with a restaurant guide. I highly recommend this restaurant. May I make you a reservation?

Guest: Wow! That would be great!

Me: Sure, what's your room number? I'll just take your information from there.

Guest: It's blahblahblah.

Me: (sees they're booked under the Planned Parenthood group). Okay, I'll do that now.

Guest: Thank you so much! You've been so helpful!

Me: Well, thank you for working for women's rights.

Guest: (beaming and dumbfounded with pride) Thank you...thank you so much.

- - - - - - -

You understand. These encounters are excellent when they occur, but do nothing for the soul. 

People don’t rubberneck because they want to make sure everybody in the accident is alive. 

People want to see blood and guts.

Now, I grew up on the West coast so I’d like to think that I’m pretty immune to the questionable behavior of dumb blonde bimbos. This particular woman, however, shattered my patience:

Guest (blonde, complete with Louis Vuitton monogram bag and Chihuahua): Hi, checking in.

Me: Alright. What is your last name, please.

Guest: Blahblah.

Me: You know, I'm having a bit of a hard time locating your reservation. Do you have the confirmation number?

Guest: Uh, no.

Me: Alright. Is it possible that it was booked under a different name?

Guest: Uh, no. It was booked under blahblah.

Me: (looking under multiple dates, spelling the name in different ways, etc.) I apologize, but I'm still not finding it. It's spelled blahblah, correct?

Guest: Uh, yeah.

Me: (tries again) It's still not coming up. It is possible that the reservation was booked at a different hotel? Maybe [hotel with similar name]?

Guest: NO. None of that is possible. I had a room over at [different property] and it was booked as a smoking room, but I didn't want a smoking room. They sent me over here because you have non-smoking rooms. I spoke to the MOD (manager on duty) and he made a reservation for me. 

Me: You spoke to the MOD?

Guest: Yeah, I spoke to MOD.

Me: (calling MOD) Hi, MOD, do you remember booking a reservation for blahblah? From [different property]?

MOD: Uh, no I don't.

Me: Do you want to speak with her. She's certain she spoke with you. I have her right in front of me.

MOD: I'll be right down.

Me: He'll be right down.

MOD: Hello, Ms. blahblah. I don't remember us speaking. I understand we're having a hard time finding your reservation?

Guest: Yeah. (tells entire story again).

MOD: Okay, well, we're going to check one more time with the front desk manager and see if he's the one you spoke with.

Guest: Okay, fine.

Me: Did you remember booking a reservation for blahblah from [different property].

Front Desk Manager: Well, I remember booking for a bleeblah from [different property]. Maybe she's with him.

Me: Okay.

Front Desk Manager: Ms. Blahblah, are you rooming with a Mr. Bleeblah? 

Guest: Uh, yeeahhh.

Me: (looks up reservation under different name) Ah, yes. Here it is. Er, sorry about the confusion.

Guest: Whatever.

Me: Here are your keys. The guest elevators are over there.

Guest: Kay thanks bye.

Extreme Facepalm

 Guest: I, uh, parked in the handicapped spot in the garage. How does that work?

Me: Alright, I'll add parking to your reservation and it'll be charged to the credit card on file.

Guest: Wait, I still have to pay for parking?

Me: Yes, sir. Overnight parking is $20 per day for hotel guests.

Guest: And I have to pay for parking?

Me: Yes, sir, that is correct.

Guest: Even if I parked in the handicapped spot?

Me: That's right.

Guest: And it's going to be $40?

Me: Yes, sir. You're staying with us for two nights.

Guest: I guess I shouldn't have asked.

Me: Well, to be fair, the garage does not allow vehicles to exit without the room key programmed that way. And the room keys aren't programmed for parking unless it's charged to the account on file.

Guest: $40, huh?

Me: Yes.

Guest: Well, I guess I need to do something to contribute to [infamous hotel heiress party girl]'s exploits.

Me: ......

 Guest: Hello. Hi. I left my phone charger in my room and I've already checked out. Could you please send somebody up there to get it for me?

Me: Of course. What was the room number?

Guest: Blahblah.

Me: (calls housekeeping) A phone charger was left in this room. Could you send somebody to bring it down for the guest?

Housekeeper: Sure, she'll be right down. Give it about ten minutes. 

Me: Alright, I'll let the guest know.

Me: Alright, Ms.Blahblah. The housekeeper is bringing it down. If you want to have a seat, it'll be about ten minutes.

Guest: Okay. 

(two minutes later)

Guest: What's taking so long?

Me: The housekeeper needs to go to the room from wherever she's working, ride the elevator down, and come into 

the lobby. She said it would be ten minutes. She's on her way.

Guest: Okay, well, is there any way you could tell her to hurry up? I'm going to be late.

Me: Sure, I'll check on it. (calls housekeeping) Is there any way you could bring down the charger right away? The guest needs to leave soon.

Housekeeper: She just left. She's headed up to the room right now.

Me: Okay, thanks.

Me: I let her know... They're going as fast as they can.

Guest: Okay.

(one minute later)

Guest: This is ridiculous! What is taking so long?

Me: I apologize, but they are going as fast as they can. She'll be right down.

Guest: How hard can it be?

Me: I'm sorry. I'll check on it again. (calls housekeeping for the third time) Any word on the charger?

Housekeeping: I don't know where she is. She left a couple of minutes ago and should be on her way down. 

Me: Okay, thank you.

Guest: Well?

Me: It should be any minute now.

Guest: You've been saying that! Any minute now! What could be taking so long?

Me: I don't know. They told us it would be ten minutes. Do you want to go up to the room yourself?

Guest: No, that's why I wanted somebody to get it for me! And it's been way over ten minutes! (it's been about 6 minutes at this point.)

Me: If you're in a hurry, we could just ship the charger to you. Why don't you give me your information so you can be on your way?

Guest: (gives me her information) This is ridiculous. I'm going to be late. You're probably going to charge me for the shipping, too, I bet.

Me: Yes, ma'am. We'll charge the shipping cost to the credit card you gave us.

Guest: WHAT? No. This is your fault. You said it would be down in ten minutes and I've been waiting. You are not charging me for shipping!

Me: You can talk to the security guard about shipping. He'll be the one you speak with when we ship it to you.

Guest: I am not paying for shipping.

Me: We'll speak to you later, ma'am. We don't want you to be late.

Guest: Fine. This is the most ridiculous fucking thing ever. (storms to the exit)

(one minute passes and she storms back to the desk)

Guest: Well, where is it?

Me: I'm not sure. I understood we were going to ship it to you?

Guest: I'm going to be so late I can't believe this.

Me: To be fair, ma'am, I offered to send you up to the room yourself, but you declined. I assumed you wanted to have it sent down. That's what it did. It takes time.

Guest: That's not the point! This is all your fault! You'll be hearing from me later! (examines my name tag very closely)

(30 seconds later)

Housekeeper: Here's the phone charger. Sorry it took so long. The elevator stopped a couple times.

Genuinely Caring

 The dawn of the one year anniversary at the hotel is approaching, and I can't help but puff myself with a little pride that I've made it this far. I guess you could call employment in the hospitality industry a sort of right of passage into adulthood. I've finally realized that being an adult is checking your identity at the door, and massaging your swollen ankles five times a week after being shackled to a desk. Being a successful adult must mean your acceptance of corporate slavery, and of course being forced to daunt pantyhose and maybe a name tag forty hours a week.

It's been a while since I've updated my blog and, I reassure you, I have a good excuse. We'll start at the beginning.

Around the first week of the calendar year, I was pulled into my manager's office for a discussion about my desktop wallpaper. Apparently one of the suits from upstairs had found her way behind the front desk to use my computer. I had been at lunch and luckily missed the awkward encounter. My manager herself had a tone of indifference, but mentioned that this woman was deeply offended by the art of genius Brian Viveros, and that I was to replace it with something "appropriate." What surprised me was that I had specifically chosen one of the artists' more conservative paintings. Of course I didn't bother to argue, but I did interject a spout of sarcasm and my manager laughed with me.

"Should I resort to a bowl of fruit? Or maybe the picture of a beautiful spring sunset from the South of France?"

"Just lay low for a few days," she said. "Some people just don't understand your taste in art."

I really did put a 17th century painting of fruit on my desktop for a few days, and the blatant stuffiness of the painting made my boss laugh for days. Gradually I've been replacing the desktop with various art from contemporary artists, whose darkness and sexual innuendo are a bit more subdued. I'm still attached enough to my rebellious nature that I'll also sport two earrings in each ear, paint only one of my neutral fingernails bright blue, and sport six pieces of unconventional jewelry. The goal is to see how much of my individuality I can display before I'm whipped back into a brick-in-a-wall existence.

Nobody's mentioned a word, though I do get the occasional raised eyebrow from the more Judeo-Christian members of the front desk staff.

So this was a few months ago, but starting after that epic music festival, the management staff has been particularly focused on the hotel's survey scores. The meetings and occasional slaps on the wrist have been incredibly hard on front desk morale. Our survey scores never seem grow past a D+ (I think the highest I've seen this year is a collective score of 68% satisfaction). It's discouraging to witness the hard work, long hours, and exhaustion of your colleagues and have nothing tangible to show for it.

With the growing pressure from upper-upper management, the front desk has scrambled for new ideas on how to improve the surveys. My suspicions about the low scores start with one of the newer questions on the survey, which is a 1-10 scale of how the staff "genuinely cared." That question consistently bruises our score, with ratings of 1 and 2. I don't think I've been served by anybody in the service industry who I believe genuinely cared about me. Even if the service was exquisite and to my highest satisfaction, I would never assume that the employee genuinely cared about a total stranger. Maybe my standards are lower than our experienced business travelers, but if I'm being served by somebody friendly, attentive, and professional, I'm satisfied. I believe that 80% of the front desk staff is all three of these things, and yet we're written off as blase and even cruel. I think in order to achieve even a B+ in the "genuinely cared" category, we'd have to speak in a frighteningly shriek upward inflection, agree to the most impossible and obscene requests (helicopter pads, pet giraffe storage), and offer complimentary sexual services at check-in. 

I think receiving even a passing grade in this area would require fellatio and anilingus.
 

As upstairs management has proven itself to be rather conservative, they have not yet resorted to soliciting prostitution. They started an incentive program in which the team with the most improvement on its survey scores would be rewarded a gift card to a strip-mall restaurant or business. Chili's. Chik-Fil-A. Home Depot. Wal-Mart. They're really trying to inspire us, you see.

The front desk, however, is being subject to the worst kind of torture. Management has decided to completely confiscate our Internet usage, aside from work-related websites. Now, you may agree that a company as beige and uniform as mine would have banned Internet browsing from the beginning. And that it wasn't an unreasonable request to prevent employees from wasting company time. And that Internet usage detracted attention from the guests. All of these things are true, especially during peak hours and when our guest turnaround is so massive and time consuming that most of us will wait three hours before using the restroom and our eyes will start to develop a lemon-colored tint. 

There are, however, times during a shift when the lobby is pretty quiet. In the early morning and late evening, the tumbleweeds start dancing lazily and the elevator music actually becomes audible. Before the Internet ban, most of us would read the news or a book from Nook for PC. Yesterday, I started reading Naked Lunch after not having encountered a guest for almost thirty minutes. My newly promoted supervisor immediately pointed her chubby finger at me. I bet her Catholic parents taught her that kind of condescending behavior.

If she ever pisses me off enough, I can always blackmail her with some valuable information she volunteered to me. I wonder how HR would react if they knew about her sexual relationship with another supervisor, prior to her promotion. I think that would put a damper on her squeaky clean religious persona. Why do people tell me these things? Don't they know if they make themselves my enemy, that I'll manipulate them into submission?

An interesting sociology project would to examine the effects of subjecting people to such maddening boredom. Already I'm starting to feel suffocated by the blanket of hotel-induced insanity, for real this time. I started a conversation with one of my supervisors about amputee pornography. I provoked a violent debate about pro-choice/pro-life with one of the concierge lounge employees, and ending up calling her a traitor to women. Yesterday, I got drunk by myself during Happy Hour at the Mexican restaurant I'm always referring guests to. Five shots of tequila and a plate of gourmet appetizers later, I feel asleep at home around 7:00pm and didn't wake up until a little after 8:30am. 

Many sociological studies have said that Generation Y's attachment to the technology is one of the most profound causes of our short attention spans. So what happens when you make us focus on nothing? We don't enter a Zen-like state of serenity and peace. We start concocting plans involving blocks of C-4 and discussing fucked-up fetishes with our superiors.

To reassure you that I was joking about the C-4, here's the Rihanna song I've had stuck in the head the last few days:

Human Squirrels

"...you're not how much money you've got in the bank.  You're not your job.  You're not your family, and you're not who you tell yourself.... You're not your name.... You're not your problems.... You're not your age.... You are not your hopes."  ~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Every day can be a stress test at a hotel, depending on your attitude.

It’s blatantly obvious that I don’t have the best attitude about my job, or about many other things in life. I am a lifelong pessimist. I am a negative person and I’m not very fun. It’s become sort of an internal joke that I’ve elected to work in hospitality, but intensely despise the public. I don’t have faith in humanity. I do not “enjoy people’s quirks” like so many people in hospitality say (but that’s sure as hell what I said in my interview!). It’s not a coincidence that the “suits,” as I like to call them, have this conviction that all people are wonderful and fun. Of course, these are the people who make triple my yearly salary and never actually need to face these people in person. Next time you check into a large hotel, look for the frown lines and vacant, glossed-over eyes on the front desk staff.

You will be face-to-face with the living dead.

After years of being a corporate slave in various industries, I am convinced that a young American’s greatest motivation for obtaining a bachelors degree, even on a subconscious level, isn’t to expand horizons, network and make new friends, or acquire the skills to contribute to society. Not in the United States. In my case, I desire that one-way ticket out of customer service hell. The oak framed certificate on my wall that excuses me from the service sector. Nobody really wants these jobs, and it is the only area in this economy that is growing at a steady pace. I don’t think you’ll stop hearing about people going JetBlue in the middle of a shift.

The aptitude tests I took in grade school always indicated that I would thrive in independent work. I thrive best in the warm, fuzzy blanket of silence and solitude. In the mean time, I am the human cattle prod of the largest four-diamond hotel this side of the American Southwest.

And the pseudo-philosophical rant is over.

This city, for a little over two decades, has hosted one of the largest film festivals and music events in the country. This year, upward of 100,000 people will attend. Because of our sheer size and proximity to the city center, we are the feature hotel for the event. Our rooms sell out almost a year in advance and, consequently, we spend a lot of time preparing for it.

When my assistant manager was first hired at the property, she was instructed by general manger to be the “cheerleader of the front desk,” which for some reason reminded me of something Sarah Palin would say. My assistant manager took this to heart and really has been somewhat of a cheerleader. She anticipated a plummet in morale and knew that the festival would arouse tension. Her efforts have been adorable, as embarrassing as they are. We’ve been required to wear themed t-shirts daily, which are super comfortable by the way. I suppose it’s that guests take us that much less seriously. She has also supplied the back office with chocolate bars, potato chips, and other snacks. During every shift meeting, she passes out plastic party favors bought in bulk from the Dollar General. I think we all appreciate these small gestures. The majority of us are members of Generation Y and will probably never shed the cloak of childishness. I guess upper management knows we rely on constant praise and juice boxes to survive a work day. She’s a saint.

It would be a gross exaggeration if I said the guests attending this event are difficult on an individual level. They’re really not. Most of them are mellow twenty-somethings here to have a good time. They’re generally low maintenance and are easy to get along with. I suppose my grievances aren’t with guests as much as the masses and masses of bodies commuting through the hotel. Imagine the volume of one thousand chattering strangers, and multiply that by eight hours. We’ve been armed with a glass jar of cough drops in the event we lose our voices. I suppose if I were to find a silver lining, I do have the privilege of yelling at guests all I want. They won’t hear me otherwise:

"WHERE'S THE BATHROOM?"

"WHERE'S THE BATON?"

"THE BATHROOM!"

"WHAT? THE BATON?"

"THE BATHROOM!"

"OVER THERE!"

 All of this reminds me of the interrogation techniques used against Shi’ite terrorists at Guantanamo Bay. In addition to the water boarding, interrogation experts would sometimes force prisoners into a cement room. They were forced to stand with their hands chained to the floor, while strobe lights and Clockwork Orange film projections shot against the walls. They would be left in there for hours, while guards blasted Black Sabbath and Marilyn Manson at maximum volume. That’s an exaggeration, but it’s the best metaphor I can come up with. A 56-hour work week homage to War on Terror Gitmo torture. I thought I was starting to hallucinate when I started seeing man-sized chipmunks and squirrels roaming the lobby, holding cardboard signs with the phrase “Get Acorn” written in magic marker. I was quickly reassured that “Get Acorn” is actually a new Ap for iPhone, that is was a marketing stunt, and that I had no real cause for concern.

It all became especially surreal when, at the end of a long evening, I was yelled at in German because the hotel did not have a smoking room available. Despite the enraged shaking that happens to me during guest confrontation, or the sharp pain in my arm (so severe, sometimes, that I cannot even lift it), I blanked out. I guess it has become a sort of defense mechanism. While this pint-sized blonde was shrieking Germanic obscenities, I astral projected into space.

Bach’s prelude from Cello Suite No.1 plays in my head sometimes when it happens.

I also unintentionally made a girl cry, too.

Because I wouldn’t hold onto her luggage for her.

Because she wasn’t even a guest in the hotel.

I guess my lack of empathy for some of these people brings new definition for the phrase “checked out.” 

Who The Hell Really Wants to Be In Hospitality?

The Bride vs. GoGo.

This is an extremely exaggerated metaphor for my constant struggle with this job.

Enjoying the unwavering and innovative use of violence by the genius Quentin Tarantino. If only I could spar with real blood, and not with sarcasm.

This isn’t about guests. As much as I’d like to tell you about the man who argued with me over the cost of the health club (if we’d offer complimentary access, we’d surely save money on the furniture broken by overweight fuck fests!), this about the hospitality field.

I’m convinced, after almost a year at this hotel, that to survive a person must have some severe mental illness. No need for $40,000 on a degree in sociology. I’m certain that I missed the fine print while applying: Must have the ability to check identity upon arrival.

Only a real masochist could endure this type of mental slavery.



10 Important Things To Know About Hotels

1.) We don’t make the rules.

So don’t kill the messengers.

The front desk does not decide what room rates are, supply and demand does.

The front desk does not establish how many valet parking spaces will be designated, the corporate offices do.

The front desk does not determine how much internet will cost, the sales department does.

Even the general manager does not have the authority to decide these things, so please do not ask to speak with her.

Employees are all limited by rules and regulations, and may only make accommodations based on what they are empowered to do. Our job is to deliver premium service to ensure that your stay is ideal. Please do your research and determine what your costs will be. We do not run a business of customer exploitation nor highway robbery.

2.) Hotels automatically authorize your credit or debit card for an extra $50 per night.

The average guest, with parking, Internet, room service, and so on, will charge about $50 per night on incidentals. So, if you are traveling with a debit card, the hotel will remove this amount as a temporary authorization. It is essentially a security deposit to ensure that a guest has the funds to pay for services provided. The guest will not have access to these funds until he/she checks out.

If you do not want this authorization implemented, ask your front desk agent to prepay for room, tax, and parking. The agent will then remove your credit card to prevent an authorization, and “stop charge” your reservation. You will not be able to charge anything to your room, but you’ll have access to your money.

3.) When we say the hotel is sold out, we’re not lying to you.

Like all major airlines, hotels also purposefully overbook because there is a carefully calculated estimation about how many guests will not show up. When we tell you we’re sold out, we’re actually overbooked by a number of rooms. There is even a possibility that the hotel will send people away, and place them at different properties.

Most front desk agents, however, will be happy to help you find a reservation at another hotel.

 
4.) Have your photo I.D. handy at all times

Hotels are very protective of their guests, and rightfully so. We do not give out any guest information unless a photo I.D. is provided. So if you lose your room key, have a question about your credit card, and forgot your room number, the staff will make sure you’re not a stranger. The front desk implements these rules to ensure your privacy, not to harass or inconvenience you.

5.) There’s no such thing as free at a four-diamond hotel.

Two-diamond and three-diamond properties (Embassy Suites, Courtyard Marriott, etc.) are limited service hotels, so they create initiatives to inspire you to stay there. They offer free breakfast, free parking, free happy hour, and free wireless Internet. These hotels have lower standards of service and are not usually 100% 24-hour operated. The rooms have fewer amenities and are not as nice as the ones at four-diamond hotels.

Four-diamond hotels, like the one I’m employed by, are 100% 24-hour, full service properties. We are equipped with a staff of bellmen, valet attendants, housekeepers, kitchen staff, engineers, and front desk staff 24-hours day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. We are here to wait on you for the entirety of your stay, even when you’re fast asleep. Our service standards are incredibly high, and we want to ensure that you don’t need to lift a finger (if you don’t want to).

Because you are guaranteed service enviable and unmatched by other businesses, everything comes at a cost. There is no free breakfast, free coffee, free parking, or free WiFi. This comes to a surprise to a lot of inexperienced transient guests.

Please do your research before coming to a hotel. We don’t intend to surprise you with costs. You do, however, get what you pay for.

6.) Things you should know about Expedia, Travelocity, and other third-party travel websites.

I find myself explaining these things to guests with third-party reservations multiple times a day.

When you see a commercial for these websites on television, almost all of them will boast that hotels have rooms to sell and without Priceline, Expedia, Travelocity, etc., hotels would not accumulate as much business. And that’s true, but at a cost.

The rooms that hotels need to sell are sometimes the undesirable ones (smoking rooms, rooms near elevators, handicapped rooms). When you book with a third party, you are not guaranteed a certain room type. All these reservations are booked “house,” meaning that they are selected at check-in. So, if the hotel is sold out of most room types, guess what you’re getting. A smoking handicapped room on a low floor, near the elevator, with one bed and a rollaway cot.

Third-party reservations are also set in stone. The hotel cannot modify them. They are prepaid, non-refundable reservations. So if you need to cancel or change your arrival date, you cannot. And you will not be refunded your deposit.

So, if you’re celebrating a special occasion, or are particularly set on a certain room type, book through the hotel’s website. You may not save as much money, but you will be guaranteed a room type and will be able to modify the reservation as needed.

7.) Your room keys are magnetic.

And they become demagnetized by cell phones, magnets (including the one in your designer handbag!), and sometimes even other credit cards. Please be careful.

8.) We love you, but we’re not in love with you.

Your hotel staff doesn’t offer “special” services, if you know what I mean. As with bartenders, flight attendants, and servers, don’t hit on the front desk staff. Don’t take advantage of the fact that we cannot breach professionalism. We’re paid to be nice to you, not to be sexually harassed.

9.) Tip your valet attendant, bellman, and housekeeper.

Valet attendants and bellmen, like servers, only make about $3 an hour because their jobs are tip-based. They rely on tips as their main source of income, and when you leave them empty handed, it’s almost like they’re doing their job for free. Housekeepers are paid minimum wage and are some of the hardest workers in the hotel. They clean upward of 16 rooms in a shift.

Standard tip for valet and bell staff is $5. Standard tip for housekeeping is $2-$5 per day.

We take tips, too.

This may be controversial, but I’m not implying that you tip the front desk staff when they check you in or out. Sometimes, however, it is requested that we complete tasks that require a lot of extra work. When the hotel is sold out, we go out of our way to find you a reservation at a different hotel, even if the hotel is outside our brand. When you have a wedding party, we ensure all your guests receive their gift bags by manually putting notes in their reservations (sometimes for 100 people!), in addition to making sure they’re safe. We sometimes act as concierges and get you a table at a restaurant whose queue is backed up six months. We’ll illegally take you to our rooftop so you can have a romantic and private proposal to your girlfriend.

Please, if you’re asking us to do something bordering the absurd or impossible, tip us. Even a dollar shows you have good faith and appreciate our going the extra mile. We don’t get paid any extra to do these things, nor receive recognition for it.

10.) You do not need to check out. (Get the fuck out!)

Hotels put your folio underneath your door for a reason.

Unless you want to dispute a charge, or change the method of payment, you are free to go.

Ballad of the Faulty Blowdryer

I’m at the tail end of a 64-hour work week and, after publishing a delirious entry on Facebook about an atomic bomb neutralizing my hotel, it’s fair to say that I am at a breaking point. I am hallucinating. I am astral projecting myself into a lavish, imaginary world of tip-toeing around in $1,300 shoes and wandering the desert in Rodarte haute couture. I was inspired this morning to apply red Laura Mercier lipstick and orange Shisedo lip gloss to defer my guests’ attention from my insincere “fuck you” eyes to my kissable lips. I’m getting a little desperate. I’m name dropping the brands of my makeup. If you were curious, both of these were inherited or free.

The hotel hosts upward of one hundred groups every year. We’ve seen everything from conservative Christian right pro-life groups, farm equipment manufacturers, and hair dressing conventions. The front desk, after encountering these groups as one, beastly force, observes a general personality type. The pro-life groups are unsmiling, serious, and usually over the age of 35. The farm equipment manufacturers are reserved, polite, and low maintenance. The hair stylists are superficial, rude, and extremely high maintenance (35 towels, anyone?).

The most recent group in-house was some American association of loony doctors (psychiatrists), celebrating their 40^th anniversary. It was amusing, yet unsurprising, that the 400 some odd attendees were even-tempered and patient, despite my unwelcoming “How the fuck can I help you, today?” The especially older ones maintained composure and spoke in a soothing, unvarying tone of voice. These people were good at paying attention, and unlike the guests who carry on a cell phone conversation while I’m trying to decipher whether they’d like a mini bar key, remained focused.

I really only had one guest issue from this entire group. Psychiatry is a field that requires a lot of training and education, sometimes upward of ten years. They listed their names with M.D., Ph.D.,etc., even on the reservations that only I would see. I had a woman smugly correct me when I called her “Ms. Blahblahblah.” She frowned and replied: “Doctor Blahblahblah.” You understand. These people are well-educated and make $200,000+ a year. They have an average IQ of 120 and above.

This guest’s name was “Tabitha.” Tabitha had approached one of my colleagues the day before, shaking the blow dyer she had brought down from her room, insisting that it didn’t work. These things happen all the time. It’s an 800 room hotel, and things break. My colleague aptly send another to her room, promising that housekeeping would test it and that it would work properly. Tabitha thanked her and removed herself from the front desk, combing her disheveled hair with her fingertips.

This morning, Tabitha approached me with another blow dryer, shaking it violently. Her hair was a damp seagull’s nest, and she raised her voice enough to the catch the attention of some other guests.

  
"This doesn't work, either," she cried, looking incredibly helpless and annoyed. "There's probably something wrong with the outlets in my room. I don't know!"

Now, I don’t have years experience in hospitality, but during my time here, I have never heard a complaint about electricity in this hotel. Of course, we’ve had plenty of issues with hot water and air conditioning, but the electrical outlets. I was skeptical, deciding to investigate. I pulled up her reservation on my computer and noticed she was in the psychiatrists’ group room code, and her name clearly had an M.D. trailing it.

I took the blow dryer from her and examined it carefully, like a forensics investigator scanning for fingerprints. I plugged the device into the outlet at the front desk, fiddling with the red and blue buttons on the plug in. Eureka! An embarrassingly loud WUUUUURRRRRRR echoed in the lobby, and my supervisor looked over at me proudly.

"I know you're already checked out of your room," I said. "So you're welcome to use the lobby restroom for your hair. There are two outlets near the sink."

She begrudging lingered into the restroom, the cord of the dryer swaying to and fro like the tail of a timid dog.

Not thirty seconds later, Tabitha stomps back to the desk, again shaking the dryer, looking desperate and furious.

"IT. IS. NOT. WORKING."

My acting skills have become very good in the months I’ve been at the front desk, and I squeeze my face into an expression of empathy. I excuse myself and follow her to the restroom, opening the door and inviting her inside. The plug the hair dryer into the outlet. I switch it on. WUUURRRRRRRRRRR.

We make eye contact and I smile coyly (problem?), and glide back out into the lobby.

At this point, my supervisor has a serious case of giggles, and she whispers, “I can’t believe you did that!”

It was a victory for us community college drop outs.

The general consensus of this story: would you trust somebody to prescribe you anti-depressants and anti-psychotics if she cannot work a blow dryer?