Hospitality Unlimited. Secrets Unleashed.
Karmic Termination
Unless you happen to be a time-traveling cyborg assassin with an Austrian accent, terminations are not any fun at all. This goes for both the person being fired as well as the person doing the firing. Even in cases when the employee has committed an obvious act of insubordination or otherwise gratuitous negative act in the workplace - it is only human to struggle with stripping someone of their finances and general means of living, let alone their daily routines or sense of self-worth. This is not to say that an employer should keep someone on their payroll that stands as a detriment to the business any longer than necessary; I am a firm believer that delaying a deserving termination can only make the situation worse and frankly this delay of the inevitable does no one any good. In my opinion, action should be handled swiftly and with a bit of respect and tact during such unfortunate circumstances.
Aside from a basic sense of human dignity and conscience, there is another extremely important reason for a hotelier to show respect when a termination comes up: the hospitality business is a small world of people with memories like elephants. This is an industry built on networking and contacts, job relocations and department-hopping, buy-outs and mergers…you will meet again and your actions will be remembered.
Case in point:
I recently received an email from my old colleague and friend, Luke Tealy. We had worked together years ago when I served as the weekend manager and he as the Assistance General Manager for a charming extended-stay type hotel. We rarely crossed paths during the work week, however we formed a special bond during a meeting on one occasion, when we voiced our similar disdain for the General Manager’s decisions and handling of the staff as well as the generally dreadful treatment wherein. (A shared loathing such as this tends to draw people together.)
The GM spoke to his employees like peasants sent to serve their King. His language was wrought with foul language, put-downs and negativity. Worst of all was his dependency on fear to gain respect - an effort that is never as fruitful as the opposing side: giving one’s respect in which to earn another’s. In short: he was a despicable ogre and walking Human Resource Claim waiting to happen.
One afternoon, late in the Fall season, trouble was started when Luke had arranged for the landscapers to come in for some leaf removal and final grounds-keeping in preparation for the approaching Winter season. The GM was dismayed…or more accurately - flabbergasted that such decisions were made without his final approval. We can examine both sides of the argument and weigh the appropriate disciplinary action with judgment and reasoning, but given the call I received from Luke that day, it hardly seems worth the time.
I answered my phone while making lunch, which inevitably left a mustard finger print on the ‘talk’ button and subsequent yellow crust in its crevices that never came out, “Hello,” I answered.
A deep exhale came from the other end, “Hey, it's Luke - do you have a minute?”
“Sure, are you at the hotel?” I asked.
“Yeah, just having a final smoke before the execution,” he said with a chuckle.
I hardly let him finish another drag of the cigarette before I shouted, “You think you’re getting canned!?!”
“I know it,” he said with full lungs. “He’s pissed that I set-up some landscaping without him. I was sure he would find something to blow out of proportion; I’m just happy it’s sooner rather than later.”
Luke was not troubled by his pending termination at all. As the AGM, he spent more face-to-face time with the boorish GM than anyone - too much time by his account. With a promise to call me afterward with all the details, Luke hung up and walked the green mile towards his fate.
In true tasteless form, the termination came with a barrage of insults related to job performance and lack of communication, but what pinched a nerve somewhere deep inside Luke was when the GM hurled the final blow, “You might think about the impression you give, with such filthy shoes.”
The words hit Luke’s ear drums like daggers and as if acting upon reflex, his eyes went to his feet. There, on the left shoe, was a glob of grape jelly. Collateral damage from the hour he had spent in the dining room after breakfast, cleaning and resetting tables because two servers called out that day.
Luke told me his only words were, “Who do you think you are?” but he admitted he didn’t stay for the answer.
All these years later we still keep in contact via email and bump into each other at conventions every now and again. In his most recent correspondence, he shared some especially pleasing news…
It’s important to know that Luke continued to work in hotels after his departure. First at a competing hotel in town, then he returned to the same brand in another area of the country. At present, he works as a Quality Inspector for the corporate office. This means he travels the country and carries out surprise inspections on hotels, decides upon scores and relays them back to district managers, which can lead to accolades and in some cases - fines.
As fate would have it, Luke was assigned to a hotel with a familiar face as the General Manager. What followed was the most exhaustive and meticulous inspection one can imagine. Luke penalized the GM for every infraction big and small…even microscopic. No mattress unturned; no dusty storage closet unaccounted for.
With great forethought this time, Luke crafted his departing words and launched them like rockets, “Here’s your copies of the paperwork. You know, if I could take away points for your personal appearance I would have. What kind of impression do you think you are giving the guests with such filthy shoes?”
The GM’s head darted downward; his shoes were covered in dust, debris and cobwebs from the days thorough examination. Before he could look back up, Luke was gone.
~The Innkeeper
*Next Chronicle Post: Thursday*
Innkeeper InnSight, Volume 2
Welcome to this, the 3rd weekend of June 2010 and the second volume of Innkeeper InnSights. Let’s Check-In, shall we?
I Must Confess…
I stand presently with the shoe planted firmly on the other foot as this upcoming week approaches. In just a few days I will return to my hometown in New England after a lengthy absence and morph from day-to-day hospitality insider to a bonafide traveler and guest. The bulk of my destinations throughout each year are related to business of coarse, which means I have little time to hang around the hotel, catch a local show or relish the delights of room service - all of which I am now determined to fit on the agenda.
The reason for this journey is that my attendance is required for a celebration of my becoming an uncle for the first time. Actually an uncle-in-law and moreover the occasion is technically for the mother-to-be…but who wants to split hairs anyway?
I look forward to visiting with friends and family as well as discovering the changes to the places I knew so well in a time that seems long past. My packing has not yet begun and will likely wait until the night before I depart, though the plans are well laid out for a visit to my favorite little hometown bookstore, lunch at the Italian restaurant around the corner from my childhood home and long scenic drives around the beautiful lakes and orchards that dot the land. I have always been the exploring type and my job has allowed for relocations further and further away from where I started, time and time again. Despite this, or perhaps because of it - it’s going to be nice to voyage back.
Updates & BulletInns
- The Innkeeper Chronicles passed the two month mark this week with the postings of the Chronicles: Bitter-Sweet and What's In A Name?
- With the support of readers, fellow bloggers and recent admittance to select industry directories, the growth in hits, entry views and subscribers have doubled and in some cases tripled since the previous month.
- ConfessInns.com, which provides additional features and news from the Innkeeper, continues to grow with reader participation and enthusiasm. An opportunity will be presented in July for related hospitality blogs to be featured and reviewed here - check back for more details!
- Responses to Days & Distinctions have yielded positive feedback and have been considered a marvelous improvement to the consistency of this blog. Every Monday, Thursday and Saturday - you’ve got a reservation with the Innkeeper.
- Care to Share? If you like what you see here at The Innkeeper Chronicles, please forward a link to a friend and spread the word!
Fortuitous Discoveries
Banquet Manager - This is a brilliant blog from the banquet niche of the hospitality world. With frequent posts on topics ranging from call-outs to chocolate fountain adventures and pet peeves, this often hysterical blog is a must-see in my estimation.
Bullet Holes In The Mailbox - A wonderfully written blog which reflects the author’s family, friends, memories, opinions and life encounters. Each post is captivating and will send you running to his archives for more.
It's The Law - If you are planning on crossing state lines, you should brush up on some of the little known and unbelievably obscure laws from all 50 states concerning everything from shaving in public to teaching pets math and whistling under water.
Get more Fortuitous Discoveries in the Bonus Amenities tab!
Weekly Whisper
Shhh. You didn't hear this from me, but rumor has it that this Monday's Chronicle will focus on employee terminations and Thursday's ConfessInn After Dark will be the next installment of The Night Light.
Thank-you
My continued thanks goes out for all the support, comments and link-backs I have received. I look forward to remaining a frequent stop for you on your journeys of the road and web.
Notable Confession:
“We only confess our little faults to persuade people that we have no big ones.” - Francois de La Rochefoucauld
~The Innkeeper
*Next Chronicle Post: Monday*
What's In A Name?
I have a friend named Joe. Joe looks very much like what you may imagine a ‘Joe' to look like. Not that every Joe looks alike, but this Joe - if you ever were to see him - you would say, “Now that guys looks like a 'Joe'." I know this other person named Joe too. He also looks very much like a ‘Joe’. This second Joe doesn’t look too much like the first, but if you were ever to see Joe #2 you’d probably say “Now that guy looks like a ‘Joe’ too. I met another man once that was also named Joe. For the sake of remaining chronological, let’s call him Joe #3 for now. This Joe did not look like a ‘Joe’ at all. At first I thought his resemblance to be more representative of a Felix or Franklin. It’s strange how some people fit right into their names as though their parents were somehow clairvoyant in matching it to their future likeness and others seem to have a much more awkward fit all together.
One day after a meeting with the Housekeeping staff in the Birch Room, one of the cozy conference rooms located on the first floor, I walked to the Front Desk to speak with Stephanie about picking up an extra afternoon shift over the upcoming weekend. When I arrived she was checking-in a guest, so I stood waiting for a few minutes flipping through brochures in a rack nearby and pretending to read their contents as they finished up. As it turned out, the pen Stephanie handed the guest to sign his registration card was dry as a bone. Since Stephanie had her head down making key cards at that particular moment and since I was failing miserably in feigning interest about the local hiking trail site map - I handed him a pen from my pocket.
“Welcome to the Inn,” I said as I pointed it at him, “How long will you be staying with us?”
“A few weeks or so, maybe longer,” he replied, taking the pen from my fingertips.
He signed his name and initialed by the rate as Stephanie had instructed him, “How long can I keep this rate - that is, if I need to extend?” He asked with his head down.
“Well, Mr. Webber, the coupon code you used online is good for five days,” she said placing his key packet on the desk beside him. “Can I have someone help you with your bags?”
Mr. Webber placed my pen into his pocket, slid his registration card forward to Stephanie, grabbed his room keys and grunted, “No need,” then he lifted three or four white plastic grocery bags which sat on the floor by his feet. He tied them together creating a common center knot that made the heaps of plastic look like puffy white flower petals.
“The elevators are this way,” I interjected to fill the lingering silence while gesturing with my vacant, pen-less hand, “have a wonderful stay, Mr. Webber; sleep well.”
He walked past me without a glance and barked, “Call me, Joe.”
Right away I thought about the odd fit of his name. I would have guessed Fredrick or maybe even Fitch before Joe any day. His awkward and off-putting personality had little to do with this thought however. I’ve never met any Fred or Fitch that reminded me of this strange fellow, actually as the level of weird increased over the course of his stay it became apparent that I had met no one at all like Mr. Joe Webber before.
Each encounter Joe had with the staff and myself seemed to top the last. The man clearly had little or nothing to do all day and just paced around the lobby making other guests feel uncomfortable and changing the TV channel in the sitting area to old western movies. I made it a point to speak with him as often as possible to monitor his mental state and encouraged the staff to do so as well. A few days into his stay he started becoming more comfortable with his surroundings. Soon it was he that spoke to us as often as possible; most conversations followed this order:
1.) Joe asks a ridiculous question. (“What brand of mulch is used around the bushes outside?”)
2.) Joe states an uneducated opinion. (“Mulch is bad for the bushes, you should use pebbles and rocks so the roots can get more water.”)
3.) Joe avoids eye-contact and shows disinterest while the person he just posed the ridiculous question and uneducated opinion to, tries to figure out how to respond to such insanity.
4.) Joe randomly interrupts with completely off-topic…let’s say ‘frugal’ inquiries. (“Do I need to order a cup of coffee to have a bunch of those little creamers?”; “Does my rate go down if I don’t need housekeeping for a few days?”; “Can you give me a list of local restaurants that serve dinner for under $10?”)
I can understand a traveler’s desire to keep expenses to a minimum, but this Joe was just plain cheap. Every freebie, sample, coupon, or minor complaint that would be rewarded with a discount was sucked up - post haste…Joe was the King of Discounts. He first checked in for fives days per his internet coupon rate, but on the day of his departure he made another reservation from the hotel’s business center to arrive that same day using another coupon. He did the same again when that offer expired and so on and so on until our dear Joe was a guest for over a two months.
I had seen Joe nearly every day of his first two months at the Inn and I recall only three different variations of the same basic outfit he wore over that time. Then, seemingly out of nowhere things began to change. He began dressing much better, shaving more often and trimming his unibrow. Joe even had a girl or two on a few occasions and returned some evenings with take-out bags from much more upscale restaurants than would cater to his dollar menu requirements up to that point. He hung around the lobby much less often and asked fewer questions. He stopped stealing coffee creamers from the dining room and extended his stay for another month in an upgraded suite without any discounts.
The staff wondered about the sudden changes and hypothesized about him having won the lottery or being switched out for a cleaner, wealthier twin brother. For the life of me, I could still not get over how his name terribly mismatched his face. (Maybe Fabian or Floyd would fit better, but I digress.)
A few days before his third month came to a close, I received a call in my office from the Front Desk as I sorted through the day’s emails. Nelson told me that there were some men in the lobby to see me and that I should hurry.
I closed my office door for a moment and adjusted my tie in the mirror behind it. Then I flew out to the hall and B-lined it straight to the Front Desk where I spotted four men in black suits and ties milling around each other with two uniformed police officers in tow.
The men in the suits ranged in age from fifty-five down to about thirty and they all looked equally intimidating and intense. The oldest stepped forward after I introduced myself to the herd.
“My name is Special Agent Claude Malkison. I understand you may have a guest here by the name of Joe Webber,” he said glaring.
What happens next in this situation is that I say five simple words. The answer will be simple as well and absolutely definitive in dictating how/if we go any further…
“Do you have a warrant?”
It is the requirement and policy of every hotel I have known, that guest information is sacred and protected. This goes for all anonymous callers, ex-spouses, family members and yes - law enforcement too. Unless of coarse, direct permission is given by the guest or inquirer has a warrant. Police and agents like those that stood before me know how it works and usually won’t waste time asking if they don’t have one.
The second oldest of the four Suits raised a blue folder, “Here you go,” he said.
My eyes danced around the page and I quickly spotted the name Joe Webber, however it was listed in a section labeled “Aliases.” His other names included Mike Tobber, Nick Popper and Tony Langetti. The document was legal and allowed for the complete search of his room and vehicle as well as a direction to apprehend him immediately. I instructed the front desk to provide the Suits with any and all information they required and soon after they left the lobby with the officers to head for Joe’s room.
The only one of the men that stayed behind happened to be the youngest, “Probably not seasoned enough to come along for the bust,” I thought. He was quite pleasant once we were alone and very loose-lipped.
The young Suit told me that Joe had taken a cruise with his wife five months previous and had never returned. His wife reported him missing and it was ruled that he had suffered some kind of accident and fallen to his death from the ship. The authorities were immediately suspicious due to a very large insurance policy which was collected months later. Large withdrawals were then made from her account and wired to newly opened checking accounts under each of the alias listed. He would hide out until the money came in and they would fly out of the country when the time was right.
The trouble for Joe was that the police had been putting increased pressure on the wife as time went on and finally managed to convinced her to spill the beans about their plot to fake his death.
I realized at this point that I had neglected to look for Joe’s real name on the warrant and casually asked to see it again. First Name: ‘Fletcher’ - I should have known.
~The Innkeeper *Next Chronicle Post: Saturday *
Visit ConfessInns.com and The Innkeeper Chronicles
Bitter-Sweet
I’m often faced with a frustrating predicament; an unavoidable catch-22 that comes as the unfortunate down-side to the opportunity of peeking randomly into people’s lives as they navigate through their travels and stop at the Inn along the way. Limited by our position in time, their respective journeys may have just begun or stand only mid-way through. Most frustrating is when their fascinating expeditions are nearly complete and lack just a few pieces to reach the finish. This disadvantage; this absence of closure and lack obligation to follow-up can be a hard pill to swallow, but they make the rare encounters with people like Earl Garrett - a guest at the very end of his extraordinary journey - so much more special.
It was at the end of six long months that Mr. Earl Garrett, a private investigator, found his way to the Inn. Despite his dapper blue suit and well-groomed hair, his weathered eyes were red from the extended travel and lodging and he was tremendously relieved to have it come to a close. More than he, his client (whom he called Cassandra) would be ecstatic as her story had begun more than thirty years earlier…on her birthday.
Cassandra’s twenty-third birthday was much different than her twenty-second. In just a year’s time she would go from a confused college senior, regretting and second-guessing her choice of a communications major to transform into a popular personality in multiple radio and television markets. The witty young woman with the soft, charming voice took on fans by the droves as the side-kick on a popular morning radio show and landed re-occurring spots on local TV weekend programming. The speed of the sudden fame and prestige didn’t go to her head though, rather it just made her work harder. No time for social events, dating or late nights out of the office for Cassandra. Before she knew it, the year had passed and her birthday made her pause.
Upon reflection of her hard work and success, she decided she was ready to let lose a bit and enjoy the special day, but reality and disappointment would soon set in. She received only empty, emotionless birthday greetings from acquaintances and generic paper cards that filled her office mailbox from advertisement sponsors and company big-wigs, but no meaningful birthday wishes that seemed to matter or fill her with any warmth. Her parents called by noon that day, but by 8PM she hadn’t heard from any friends and her mind focused on regret.
Depressed and lonely, Cassandra began to drink and weep at her work desk under a pathetic dim light. She had confessed to Mr. Garrett that the light was just bright enough to catch the shine on a marvelous gift basket placed on the counter space in the corner of her office. She staggered towards it and marveled at its beauty. The wooden basket was wrapped with green plastic that continued to catch the light and bounce it back in varying shades. Inside, Cassandra could see a series of treats and trinkets, but pulled back the small white card attached before going any further. Taped to the card was a delightful piece of mint chocolate, which she unwrapped and devoured as she read the note:
“Somewhere there's someone who dreams of your smile,
And finds in your presence that life is worth while,
So when you are lonely, remember it's true;
Somebody, somewhere is thinking of you.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks and mint chocolate down the corners of her mouth. The unsigned message was exactly what she needed to hear and she vowed to herself that success and personal happiness would both be present on her next birthday and every birthday to follow from then on.
Making good on her commitment, Cassandra continued to progress in her career and relationships; by the following birthday she was promoted to co-anchor of the local morning television news program, she had established a meaningful romantic relationship and she struggled to get any work done between answering all the singing birthday song phone calls and telegrams throughout the day from her closest of friends. She made it a point to leave the office early that second year, but noticed a marvelously familiar green gift basket on her way out. It wasn’t alone on the counter this time, but it remained the most alluring. She detached the anonymous white card from the green plastic wrap as she had done the year before, discovered another tasty mint chocolate which she gobbled down hastily and read the lovely new poem on the elevator ride to her car.
Years past on and the number of gifts and calls increased steadily each birthday. Her office filled with cards and baskets and for the first five years or so Cassandra made certain to keep her special green basket to the front of them all - the most prominent as it arrived each year on that day. Further along to ten and fifteen years she paid less and less attention. She wouldn’t notice it sometimes until days later; in years when she was dieting she skipped the chocolate mint; by year twenty she had stopped reading the poems.
Having achieved as much success as her local media outlets would allow, Cassandra finally retired from her work in front of the camera and took an editorial job for a long while at a newspaper before finally deciding to retire all-together and write a novel.
After her departure from the TV news the calls and gifts dwindled. When she left the newspaper and started her retirement they slowed and lessened to only her closest friends, but she could always count on her dependable green basket, note and mint… that was until just six months ago - when suddenly Cassandra’s birthday came and past with no special delivery.
“So here I am,” said Mr. Garrett wiping his brow, “when it didn’t arrive, she was instantly filled with regret; she had never looked into the source of the gifts and had taken them for granted. Now she fears it’s too late.”
“Is it too late?” I asked; I bit my lip as I awaited his answer.
His eyebrows furrowed as he pressed his lips together and nodded his head slightly. Mr. Garrett was relieved that his case was closed, but saddened at the news he had to give his client. The private investigator traced the last eight years worth of gift baskets to a law office in town near the Inn. He took a meeting with an attorney that was not completely surprised to hear from a private investigator inquiring about the matter. The attorney told Garrett that he had organized the deliveries for the last eight years on behalf of ‘the diseased’ and conveyed a shocking story of how the mystery gift-giver was Cassandra’s father. After she was conceived, he would be shipped away to war and expected never to return. To save the child heartache, he urged her mother to take another man’s hand and keep the true paternity a secret. The agreement was that Cassandra would never know of him and he could never contact her.
Later, having survived years of combat, he returned alive to face his decision and life without his daughter; he longed to know her and lived in loneliness because of his sorrow. Bound by his agreement, he stayed loyal to his word in hopes that her life was somehow better; he could only wonder.
Then one day she showed up on his television.
At the age of twenty-three, with the face of her mother and last name of the man who had taken his fatherly place - there she was. He could not stop himself from sending her gifts and poems to express his love even if it was anonymous. He hid clues throughout the years to provoke her curiosity, but even the mint chocolates that were made at the candy factory he worked at for twenty years went over-looked.
At the end of his life, he put aside an account to be drawn upon each year to ensure she received her basket, an additional amount was added to cover the fees for it’s personal assembly by the attorney and to guarantee its accuracy and poem selection. Last year, the account balance dropped to zero and the baskets forever ceased to be shipped.
I never saw the private-eye again and I have only my imagination for the heart break Cassandra must have suffered when she heard the news. I am grateful to have been provided with closure for this chronicle, but I realize that Cassandra’s closure may never come and the revelation of her loving father will remain forever bitter-sweet.
~The Innkeeper *Next Chronicle Post: Thursday*
Visit ConfessInns.com and The Innkeeper Chronicles
Memorial Day Palooza
At the Inn, the weekend before the last Monday of May always has a very familiar and distinctive feeling to it. The hustle and bustle is exemplified, guests move about with an undetermined fury; packing the dining room, parading through the lobby aimlessly and flip-flopping their way through the corridors in embarrassing garments they’d call bathing suits. The smell in the air seems to change after each few steps; morphing from chlorine to wafts of alcohol, then some sort of cheap perfume or maybe expensive cologne – often I can’t tell the difference.
As familiar as the feeling of the weekend may be, consistencies are few and far between each year, with the exception of full mandatory attendance from each and every staff member. Ah yes, it’s Memorial Day weekend; a holiday. That is, a holiday for everyone except the staff. All of which are required in order to keep the well-oiled machine running smoothly and to earn every penny charged extra for the high occupancy time period.
Less than an hour into the afternoon on Memorial Day Sunday, I found myself riding the elevator from the third floor to the first, bare arms outstretched like a surgeon entering an operating room. My hands were in no condition for internal expeditions however; frankly I restrained myself from scratching a terrible itch on the bridge of my nose. Just forty minutes ago I was shaking hands with the town alderman and his wife and now that same hand, along with its counterpart, were soiled from clearing a block in the upper laundry chute, which had cut-off the main artery for Housekeeping’s laundry station and thus halted vital production of clean terry and linen. Crisis averted – I headed directly for the employee break room to scrub and sanitize.
As I stood over the sink, adjusting the water to as high of a temperature as I could stand, Maurice walked into the room and flew quickly to the Pepsi machine.
“Phew; busy, busy, busy,” he murmured aloud as he scrapped a wrinkled dollar bill back and forth against the side of the vending machine as it discriminatingly rejected his money again and again as if it had decided he did not deserve the tasty ice cold beverage it so tauntingly depicted across its surface.
Maurice is a Porter, essentially a maintenance person without the technical or vocational degree – though just as bright and perhaps more dependable than most others in the Maintenance department, so I immediately felt for him as I dried my hands and watched his dollar get rejected a sixth, seventh and eighth time by my count.
“I think I have some change, Mo” I said as I dug into my front pockets.
“Oh, thank-you,” he said, “I was about to smack this thing around a little bit.”
“Let’s just make sure we spend all of our patience on the guests – they’re going to need it this weekend,” I laughed as I exchanged three quarters, two dimes and nickel for one disturbingly decrepit George Washington.
The change was quickly accepted as legitimate currency by the machine and a Diet Mountain Dew dropped with a thud. I had just begun to step towards the door to exit when I heard the soda can crack and hiss open, then Maurice’s walkie-talkie hissed out for a moment as well.
“Front Desk to Maintenance; Front Desk to Porter!” the walkie-talkie bellowed, it was Chuck, the Guest Service Manager. I paused to listen.
“This is Mo, go ahead,” Mo gasped, the carbonation from the first gulp had taken his breath away.
“We need luggage carts; check all upper floors and report back,” Chuck replied.
“10-4,” said Mo as we both left the break room.
I headed to the Front Desk and signaled for Chuck to meet me off to the side. I had him give me some figures concerning the luggage carts; the number available – the number missing. A common trait of the unaccustomed travelers, like the majority seen on a weekend such as this, is that they often take their luggage cart with them in the room and keep it for hours or days. A select few will return them to the lobby, though truthfully the most one can hope for is that they set them in the hall to be collected. Either way, the delay can set a negative stage for new check-ins who are quick to fault the Inn and its staff unless preparation is made and attentiveness kept.
If you’ve ever received a courtesy call after check-in offering further assistance, specifically to send someone to “save the hassle of returning the cart yourself” you have experienced a prepared and attentive management team. This is a ploy to remind you that the luggage cart is not for permanent use and brings attention to the common demand for its availability. I was pleased to hear that Chuck had the situation well under control and he promised that these courtesy calls had and would continue to be made throughout the day and evening.
“Now if we can get these last late checkouts turned over to clean we’ll be in excellent shape down here…” he began to say before trailing off.
“Chuck, are you okay?” I asked.
His mouth was now slightly agape and he starred through me, then he said, “Sir – can we help you?”
I turned my head and spotted the person he was speaking to - an angry gent, third in line and tapping his feet wildly while clenching his fists and jaw; this was going to be a problem. The man stepped out of line and approached Chuck and myself. I could now see that his pale gray suit was covered in chunks of yellow goo and formless white globs draped his shoulders and clung to his striped tie.
“I must have missed the disclaimer about flying pastries when I made my reservations online!” he snapped.
Chuck and I met eyes and exchanged a shared confusion, “Can you tell us what happened exactly?” I inquired, “And your name, sir?”
“I am Prescott Thurton and I am a pending guest at your establishment for the time being,” he began, “I arrived early today to beat the rush – a lot of good that did, this place is a mad house!”
Chuck excused himself and took over a computer station a few feet away. Without an official exchange of words he knew to look for upgrades as I ironed out the complaint.
“Mr. Thurton, yes, it is a very busy time for us, but I assure you this is a controlled chaos and I promise the same quality and service you should always expect from us. Please tell me what happened to your suit so that I can get you back on track for a wonderful stay,” I told him.
“I am parked near the side door,” he gestured with his hand, “as I got out of my car I was bombarded with…these….stinky…things. They’re all over my car – look at my suit! It’s potato something, maybe cheese and this slimy dough!” he rattled off.
“They’re pierogies,” a woman’s voice chimed.
“They’re what?” Mr. Thurton replied.
A short woman with a round face and rosy complexion appeared suddenly and picked a sample from Mr. Thruton’s left elbow; she sniffed then tasted it, “Mmm, potato, cheese, maybe even a little bit of ham there too,” she grinned, “It’s a polish appetizer, very tasty and shouldn’t stain…better with cabbage if you ask me,” she opined.
Much like Perry Manson, Sherlock Holmes or old Colombo might have, I put the puzzle together quickly. If Mr. Thurton had parked near the side door, he would have had to do so against the building, where the outdoor pool is located. The two are separated by a tall iron gate and a series of eight foot tall evergreen shrubs; tall and wide enough to hide the perpetrator from the victim, but I knew immediately who was at the source of the flying pierogies. I handed the potato-clad guest back to Chuck for that room upgrade, some free dry-cleaning and a squeegee for his car before heading to the pool.
I walked the fine line of racial profiling, but summed it up to common sense when I remembered that the Kowalski family had rented the outdoor pool and BBQ area for a private party all afternoon. Could it be just sheer coincidence that today the sky began falling with polish dumplings?
No, as it turned out. No coincidence at all.
The dear old polish grandmother of the family, whom they call “Babcia” had chosen to confess to her loving husband of more than fifty years, that she had altered his dear-departed mother’s receipt for pierogies many years ago to account for his salt intake and he had never noticed. This caused an eruption of tossed delicacies, of which Mr. Thurton was the sole casualty. The luck of it all was that her husband had grown tired too early to cause any real damage, (I winced as my eyes caught a heavy looking kielbasa).
Ten minutes after my chat with the Kowalski family, I was on the fourth floor dealing with an over-flowing bathtub, then a billing glitch with a group block of rooms and long night of luggage cart hunting. Minor set-backs, curve balls and temporary dilemmas aside, the Team did a great job holding the walls together and completing another typical and entirely unpredictable Memorial Day weekend.
~The Innkeeper *New: Days & Distinctions *
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Special BulletInn
This Special BulletInn is brought to you by the Innkeeper. (Cue dramatic intro music here.)
A few days ago, a loyal reader of The Innkeeper Chronicles forwarded a marvelous suggestion to make a beneficial improvement for both the structure of this blog and its readers alike. After continuing correspondence with the reader over a number of days and lending careful consideration to the recommended approach - I have acted upon the idea and will begin its implementation today.
Going forward, The Innkeeper Chronicles will post on three designated days of the week (Monday, Thursday, and Saturday) at specific times and with on-going distinctions for the particular days. I hope you will think of this as consistent weekly reservation with me; my aim is to help you identify a favorite day or two (maybe all three) that I can count on you to return to read, share and learn.
More Information and complete descriptions (of ‘Innkeeper ConfessInns’, ‘ConfessInns After Dark’ and ‘Check-In Time With The Innkeeper’) can be found in the Days and Distinctions tab.
Thanks again to Jess, for your insight and to all others joining this Innkeeper and his chronicles.
Remember: You can see daily BulletInns and lots more at ConfessInns.com, including Bonus Amenities (Updated Today!) and sneak peeks too.
Since all that’s left is a proper sign off…
"Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow," “Take care of yourself and each other," "Glad we could get together," "Good night and good news," “I’m Chevy Chase and you’re not,” "Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars," "That's the news, and I am outta here," "Good day and may the good news be yours," "See you on the radio." "And so it goes," “Seacrest out,” "That's my story and I'm sticking to it," "Stay classy, San Diego"…"Good night and good luck."Visit ConfessInns.com and The Innkeeper Chronicles
The Night Light - Part 1
Room #309 was odd in every sense of the word.
It was assigned with an odd number, located on an odd floor, positioned oddly in proportion to the hall and its décor was terribly old-fashioned, especially odd considering the modern appearance and tight upkeep on all the rest. But most odd of all; odd with a dash of mysterious and a sprig of spooky was that for a very long time – Room #309 did not officially exist.
It was during my first few months at the Inn, at the very beginning when I had just begun to wet my feet and embark on what would be my journey as an Innkeeper, when I became aware of this inherently odd room. The Front Desk Supervisor at the time was a man named Eric. I learned a lot from him in the very short time he was my supervisor, most of which were lessons of “don’ts” in working at a hotel. He never took his job or himself too seriously, which explained why he did not last long. Perhaps, just last long enough to introduce me to Room #309.
Short staffed for a busy weekend, the Inn wasted no time in throwing me to the wolves after just a few short weeks of training. I was scheduled for a busy Friday shift with a jam-packed arrivals list and only Eric as back-up to assist me. The night was sheer chaos all the way through; the flow of check-ins seemed to continue on like a steady parade of elephants, each more demanding than the last.
Due to Eric’s lack of leadership and my novice expertise at the time, I took up making notes on everything that passed through my hands to avoid any errors. Room assignments for example were unbearable; matching numbers and locations to demands and requests was a delicate game. Since I dreaded double-assigning a room or voiding keys by mistake, I kept a detailed running list of vacant rooms and crossed them off manually as I checked them in so that I would have back-up for later reference as I went along. Towards the end of the shift the computer showed the Inn was over-sold by one more room than made sense according to my notes. Soon I realized that Room #309 was not crossed off and yet the computer would not recognize it as an assignable room number.
“Eric, I think we can break even here if you can help me get this last arrival assigned to #309,” I said to my vain leader as he adjusted his hair in a painting’s reflective glass covering.
“309? We don’t sell that one, don’t even bother,” he replied without turning his head.
“Is there a 309? It doesn’t show up in the computer; did they skip a digit when they numbered the rooms or something?” I chuckled.
“You haven’t heard about 309 yet?” he seemed more interested now. “If you can stick around for a few minutes after your shift, I’ll show you.”
Eleanor, the full-time Night Auditor, (who remains with the Inn to this day, though limited to only weekend 3rd shifts) arrived ten minutes early and plopped her large white purse on the back desk, setting off rumbles of prescription pills and loose change, “How was the night, fellas?” she asked.
We filled her in on the essentials and griped about this and that as the last minutes of my shift ticked away. Eric let Eleanor in on his plan to educate me on Room #309 and added that he would return shortly to finish his paperwork and end his night.
“Is that really necessary Eric?” she asked, “I wouldn’t go messing if I didn’t have to.”
“We’re not ‘messing’, it’s just a quick tour and I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he replied as he scooped the master set of keys from a mounted box in the back office.
We made our way out the door, through the lobby and stopped at the bank of elevators nearest the first floor guest room hallway. Eric stretched out his arm and pressed the call button.
“I don’t know if anyone has been in there lately; I haven’t stepped a foot inside since last Christmas and the last guests to use it was over year ago - and they didn’t make it over night,” he told me, “we had just opened it up again after a long hiatus to try to maximize revenue, but we had to move them a few hours after check-in and issue a full refund in the morning. It was taken out of inventory later that same day.”
The elevator doors flew open and we stepped inside. Upon Eric’s direction, I reached over and selected the round white “3” for the third floor which illuminated a bright yellow. Gravity shifted as the as metal box moved upwards and Eric continued, “Decades ago, the owner of the Inn was an old man named Bookhart and he had a sister, a resident at some loony-bin, who in turn, had a son named Lloyd .”
The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened exposing the 3rd floor; we stepped out and continued down a long hallway. After passing the first set of four guest room doors, (# 301, 302, 303 and 304), I thought back to the tour I was given by the General Manager on my orientation day, which I then realized was thoroughly useless as I could not remember ever being shown the third floor in particular, rather the extent of that initial walk-around was limited to locating the pool and a couple random rooms on the first floor only.
“Keep up, okay?” Eric whispered; I wasn’t sure if he was lowering his voice for the guests in surrounding rooms or to set the ambiance for our destination. “Lloyd was terribly neglected and eventually abandoned for a number of years when his mom was put away. So Uncle Bookhart basically adopted him as his own and since he spent so much time here at the Inn, Lloyd got a room all to himself.”
The hall began to widen to the left as we passed rooms 305, 306, 307 and 308. The widening created an oddly disproportionate inlet that housed a boardroom with a wooden oval table and twelve chairs that I could see into through two large panes of glass and open faux-wood blinds. A plaque hung on the door reading, “The Pine Room – Max. Occupancy 16.”
“And here we are,” Eric said as he stopped in front of Room #309.
The door was fit into the wall on an awkward angle that made it seem more apt to be a broom closet than a guest room, but was labeled just as Eric had said, “309”. The room numbers following chronologically after it seemed to skip the chaos all together and pick up again a few more feet down the hall, creating a new grouping of rooms.
Eric jingled the master set of keys from his pocket, “They lock the deadbolt so regular key cards don’t work,” he said softy.
The heavy lock pounded open and the door swung inward.
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Innkeeper InnSight, Volume 1
I introduce to you, Innkeeper Innsights, a running newsletter of sorts that will allow me to comment on updates, changes and happenings regarding ConfessInns: The Innkeeper Chronicles and its sister site ConfessInns.com. I will also share reader questions, comments, results from Group ConfessInn Polls and quite conversely,I will sometimes even spout off about any off-topic rants that may be lingering in my thoughts or cramping my brain. Today however, I bring news of expansion and extras - so without further ado…
A last minute glitch in a banquet set-up for Mrs. Esther Carver’s book club sent me scurrying to a first floor storage room ten minutes after 7PM one Tuesday night, long after the point when I should have been gone for the day and enjoying General Tso chicken from my favorite Chinese restaurant (extra spicy!) and catching up with my DVR. It seemed Mrs. Carver’s request for maroon colored tablecloths was overlooked and the tables were dressed with cream colored cloths instead. Pressed for time with only twenty minutes until the sea of gray-haired ladies began their enthralling discussion of the latest Danielle Steele installment, I apologized and dashed away to change them out personally.
As I made my way down a dark hallway between the kitchen and the ballroom, I noticed a light coming from Mack’s office, the Inn’s Food and Beverage Manager. I walked by and waved, but his back was turned towards me as I passed; he was hunched over and rearranging a series of items sprawled out on his desk. I reached the storage room, slide my key card through the lock and felt for a light switch. The maroon cloths sat in a mangled pile on the top shelf of a four tier wall organizer. They were clean in appearance and smelled divine, but had wrinkles that looked like a complex spider web of criss-crosses and zig-zags leading everywhere and nowhere; covering every square inch. Committed to try, though not entirely convinced of its plausibility, I loaded my arms with tablecloths and headed to the Housekeeping Department to battle the army of wrinkles with hot irons and steam in the hopes of making the looming book club deadline.
I dashed back down the hallway and stopped this time at Mack’s door; I could now see that the items he had laid out were from his wallet: small pictures of children and pets, piles of ATM and fast food receipts, loose change, seven or eight dollars in ones, a few old movie stubs and more.
“Hey, Mack – you want to lend me a hand or two?” I asked while peeking over the leaning pile of table cloths in my arms.
“Where you going with these?” he said as he lifted off the top half of the pile.
“We need these pressed for the book club in fifteen minutes; how are you with an iron?” I repositioned my remaining load to rest on my hip.
“We’ll get these knocked out in ten,” Mack replied, “as long as you let me back into my office afterward, I’m not finished yet and this door is going to lock behind me.”
On the way to Housekeeping and all throughout our Olympic ironing challenge, Mack discussed his after-hours wallet project. He was excited about upgrading from a generic bi-fold Velcro version to a new tri-fold leather one. With the enthusiasm of a new car owner, Mack described the features which included double the compartment space, a transparent driver’s license window, functional zipper pocket and convenient security clasp. Even though the old one was perfectly fine and acceptable by basic standards, the new one looked much better, provided superior organization and allowed easier access. I understood the logic,despite my personal feelings towards wallets in general, a relationship that was turbulent and regrettable at best. I recall when I received my first wallet and the conversation I had with my father regarding it.
“A wallet is a very important possession,you’ll probably keep this for 10 years,” he said, “I had my first wallet for 10 years – you get attached, like a lucky charm.”
Looking back I have two thoughts – One: someone should start a support group for obsessive wallet lovers and Two: my father was quite mistaken about my wallet’s longevity. I lost the first and every one I have ever owned, right along the cash, ID and credit cards it held. I can hardly bare to imagine the time I’ve lost standing in line at the DMV for replacement identification or the torturous hours of hold music I endured while canceling cards and stopping charges.
I thought of the exchange I had with Mack when I decided to make some updates and improvements to ConfessInns.com and the Innkeeper Chronicles. Today you’ll notice a completely new look atConfessInns.com, which is now fully integrated with The Innkeeper Chronicles to ensure fast, efficient navigation and a bunch of littleextras for those who wish to spend more time in my little world.
Daily BulletInns, Hospitality Headlines, Group ConfessInn Polls, Innternet Selections, Virtual Va-Kays and Fortuitous Discoveries are some of the features you’ll find throughout the ConfessInns website and featured in the Bonus Amenities tab (located at the top of all pages).
Still to come:
The Inn’s Family Tree – a detailed diagram of the Inn’s staff members mentioned in the chronicles and a summary of memorable guests.
Reader ConfessInns – stories and reflections submitted by readers that work in the hospitality industry or have had a memorable guest experience.
My appreciation goes out to my subscribers,loyal readers and the quick passers-by that take the time join in the ever challenging, always chaotic, often peculiar and fantastically rewarding journey of an Innkeeper and his chronicles. Thank-you.
As for Mrs. Carver, she received her freshly pressed maroon table cloths about fifteen minutes late. To make up for the inconvenience, Mack and I stayed another half hour to bake two complimentary sheets of cookies for the book club, a gesture that went over smashingly and put the complaints to rest.
Exhausted, I finally stepped through my front door at 8:42PM, slid off my shoes, loosened my tie and called in my order for General Tso chicken – extra spicy.
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Signs Of A Memorable Guest
During the summertime one year at the Inn, years ago, yet etched in my memory as if it were yesterday - I experienced, as if by fate, the most fortunate of chance meetings. I recall clearly how the pastel pink and orange colored afternoon sky seemed to darken more quickly than usual; in no time at all, the day had turned to a coal black and starless night. It seemed the evening could not wait to begin, though my thoughts were focused squarely on its end. Merely seven hours into a double-shift, which would include the overnight shift to follow, I was already weary and restless from sheer boredom and limited human contact. My arrivals list (very much in need of life-support), showed one lonely name for its sixth consecutive hour of the seven, which was not much less bleak than the first hour, having maxed out at two arrivals total before coming to an abrupt end when an old married couple checked-in and disappeared soon after. The main topic of stimulating conversation was kept to a brief discussion about the dining room’s breakfast hours and a request for a 5:15AM wake-up call.
So there I sat for hours, turning figures of speech like “twiddling your thumbs” into literal avenues of passing time. The evening that had come so quickly now seemed to linger, refusing to allow time its natural passage. I visited the snack and beverage machines more often than I’d care to admit, checked my e-mails, read every word on OSHA posters and various memos that hung in the back office and won four paper football super bowls against myself before midnight struck.
At this point, I stood for a ceremonial AM stretch and headed towards the lobby’s front doors where I met with Earl, the Inn’s night watchman. He leaned on a plastic smoker’s post and sucked a few hard drags from a filtered cigar as the sliding doors opened. He promptly scraped away the fiery red tip against the grated side panel of the post and tucked its remains into the front breast pocket of his navy blue uniform. Earl handed me a clipboard and together we walked to each of the main entrances; I watched and signed-off for each door as he latched and locked them one by one – the usual protocol.
After Earl was on his way, off patrolling the shadowy parking lot (or more likely catching a nap between late night talk radio shows), I found myself refilling staplers and paper trays to keep from losing my sanity. With office supplies readily stocked, I then settled back into my comfy captains chair in the back office, dug my cell phone from my pocket and pulled up Tetris. At level five or so, the silence was pierced with the blare of the ringing phone at the front desk. I felt like an island castaway spotting a plane in the distance; I paused my game, picked up the receiver on the switchboard phone that sat next to me and pressed the blinking line.
“Good evening, Guest Serv…” I managed to get out before I heard a click and a dial tone. “What a tease,” I thought. I hardly had time to hang up and return to my game when another ring let out from the front desk. Again I picked up the blinking line, “Good evening, Guest Services, how may I…” - another click and dial tone. “Kids are getting lazy. At least when I prank called people when I was younger there was a joke to go along with it,” I complained to myself as I slammed down the receiver.
A full two minutes went by in familiar silence, then more ringing. This time I looked more closely at the incoming description text on the phone before I answered the line and saw that the call was coming from the Inn’s front entrance. I slid my chair to the surveillance monitors and enlarged the feed coming from the front sliding doors, aimed quite directly at the phone mounted near the key card reader. “Some drunk has forgotten his key,” I figured. I picked up the blinking line and tried again, “Good evening, Guest Services, how may I help you?” I said as I watched the monitor. A man held the phone in his hand about a foot from his head, he starred and studying it for a moment, showed it to a woman who leaned in and shook her head, then – click and dial tone. “What is wrong with these people?” I wondered.
I made my way around the corner and back to the Front Desk where I looked through the lobby to the large glass sliding doors at the main entrance; the man lifted the phone from the hook and it rang immediately to the front desk again. At this same moment a third person, a little girl no more than eight or nine, stepped forward and leaned against the door with her hands raised to block the glare; she saw me and began to wave. I reached for a rectangular metal button on the right wall of the front desk, which flew the sliding doors open, allowing them entry. As they walked through the lobby and towards the desk, I could hear them murmuring to each other, but I could not make out any specific words. Their tones suggested some type of impairment or disability and I began to hope they weren’t upset or confused with the delay at the door.
“Mommy, Daddy – it’s just like Zack and Cody,” the little girl said as she gestured quickly with her hands. I realized that her parents were deaf when I recognized several of her gestures as American Sign Language. As luck would have it, my mother had studied and instructed sign language throughout my childhood and exposed my sister and I to its value. Since the beginning of my career I had listed it as a fluent second language on resumes and prided myself on my ability to hold a coherent conversation (as well as hand-sing ‘I’m dreaming of a White Christmas’ if the moment presented itself).
The father dropped two sepia brown suitcases at his feet and reached into his back pocket to reveal a small red spiraled notebook and a thin BIC ink pen. He placed the notebook on the front desk and flipped through page after page of hand written messages, no doubt a map of sorts, documenting his family’s journey through endless moment-by-moment written conversations, questions and directions. I smiled and waved at his wife and daughter then reached over the desk and gently touched his wrist. As he raised his head I removed my hand and signed, “Good evening, how are you?”
The relief that rushed across his face reminded me of a lottery winner holding an over-sized check on the local news or an island castaway who has actually gotten the attention of the plane in the distance.
“You sign?” he asked.
“You can sign,” the daughter echoed with her hands and voice.
“Yes, I little,” I replied humbly, no need to profess my fluency to this family.
“Daddy, he can talk to you,” the girl said reassuring her father.
The couple smiled widely and confirmed themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Kern, the remaining name on my arrival’s list. I ensured they were assigned an ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) compliant room, which came standard with benefits like assistant listening devices, closed captioning televisions and light/vibration signal enabled fire alarms, telephones and alarm clocks. We chatted for a while about the weather and nearby locations to shop and eat. They shared that they were visiting Mrs. Kern’s parents, the first quality visit for their daughter Ally to have with her grandparents in nearly two years.
All the while, through the check-in and hand chatter, little Ally spun in circles studying every corner of the lobby and repeating “Just like Zack and Cody” and asking “Do Zack and Cody live here?” She went on to explain with great joy that The Suite Life of Zack and Cody was her favorite show “in the whole wide world,” and described in her own way that it was a child sitcom of sorts starring twin brothers living in a hotel. I could see that this trip to visit grandma and grandpa was being trumped a bit by the mystique of Inn through her wonderment for these Zack and Cody guys.
As I passed the couple their keys and pointed them towards the elevators, I regretted having to lose the privilege of their company, especially after so many hours of solitude, but I wished them a wonderful stay and waved good-bye. As Mr. Kern lifted his bags and walked away, Ally stood in place, rummaging through a little yellow pocketbook that hung from her right shoulder. Its pink strap twisted around her neck as she dug deeper and the smiley-face flower on the front flap contorted as she searched even more thoroughly than that. She signed to her mother intermittently, though she was much too quick for me to read or understand the words. Finally, she pulled out a small white sea shell and reached her miniature hand just barely above the surface of the Front Desk.
“What’s this?” I signed.
“She collects shells,” Mrs. Kern replied, “she wants to give you one,” she added.
I thanked them both with one hand over my heart and waved again as they rushed to catch-up with Mr. Kern as he entered an elevator. I spent the remainder of the morning shuffling paperwork from one side of the Front Desk to the other and reflected dearly, as I still do to this day, about the sweet family that brightened my otherwise dreadful double-shift and turned a night to be forgotten into a night to be remembered. They reminded me that it takes very little to have a positive effect on others and that sometimes the best conversations are those had in silence. A part of me is sure that I was able to brighten their night too - and perhaps remain in their memories as a welcomed surprise along their travels, filed somewhere between Grandma, Grandpa, Zack and Cody.
(Ally’s sea shell remains in my personal collection of keepsakes and mementos to this day.)
~The Innkeeper
The Curious Case Of VIPs
“Everyone loves to talk about celebrities,” is one of the very few statements in life that can be made with guiltless disregard for generalities or even the need for a second thought. The reason: It is undeniably true, without exception; no matter who you are or what you do.
Teenage girls have and always will fawn over the likes of Donny Osmond, John Stamos, the Hanson brothers or Justin Beiber, whichever one, or ones like them is considered “so hot” during their formative crush years…and maybe twenty-five years later at the reunion concert too. Likewise, I have known grown men that can’t ever seem to find the time to patch the hole in their roof before peak rain season hits, but they effortlessly memorize the names, numbers and positions for entire sports team rosters so they can keep up with their buddies down at their favorite sports bar. If fact, even celebrities love to talk about other celebrities; each with their own long-time Hollywood idols that inspired them to success and plenty of rival careers to disparage as well. And who could deny that the Pope himself dotes constantly on a certain famous celebrity? After all, his position itself affirms him as the #1 Fan doesn’t it?
Innkeepers like me are no different; if you get than one of us in the same room for a given period of time the subject is bound to come up. Additionally, hotels offer a great amount of opportunity for sightings, encounters and confrontations, no matter its brand or location. Performers, politicians, athletes and religious figures travel quite frequently and show up in some pretty unexpected places. This is primarily due to their burdened, chaotic and inconsistent schedules and lifestyles. Assistants and travel coordinators may develop favorites based on details of location or cost, but when it comes to booking hotels most are plausible locales.
The topic of celebrities for an innkeeper is a much broader subject than you may initially expect, as I realized while I began writing, documenting and organizing a category for it in the Innkeeper Chronicles. I discovered that I would have to consider three distinct sub-categories of ‘celebrity’ in order to create a complete picture. For the purposes of my job, ‘celebrity’ really just denotes importance; a person that is particularly important for some reason beyond the standard level of ass-kissing. It really amounts to being a VIP; an artificial, society-created class above the rest. For the sake of argument, let’s define a VIP more clearly though:
VIP (Very Important Person) – A person of extraordinary importance or influence who commands special treatment due to their recognition for achieving success through fame, wealth or title of dignitary.
The first VIP tier is the authentic “VIP Encounter”, which involves coming face-to-face with a truly important person; see definition above. Special allowances, accommodations and security are to be expected for a true VIP. That’s not to say that laws are broken necessarily or that any other guests are treated badly by comparison, but special considerations will be made because a hotel can benefit via notoriety and reputation from having been successful in hosting a VIP guest and the certainty of obtaining additional revenue (budgets for VIP travel is usually larger by multiple times compared to that of standard travelers.) And let’s not forget to mention the autographs, memorabilia and life-long bragging rights for some staff members.
Secondly, there are people that only think they are important; they suffer from a condition I call “VIP Syndrome.” This group of guests feels they should be afforded additional and unfounded exceptions based on some various contrived sense of entitlement. They start their check-ins clouded with ego and use it to pull and stretch their service limitations. They might be in a position of authority within their company or recently received an accolade therein; perhaps they are a platinum or diamond credit card holder or just spent a mortgage payment on a treasure trove of plastic surgery for their face and neck. Whatever the mistaken reason for their self-admiration, they use it to gripe and complain about parking fees, room service menus, and complimentary items and services or lack thereof; they make unreasonable late-checkout requests and ask for private fitness center and pool facility time; they freely share their genius opinions about what they would do if they were running a hotel and let’s not forget the endearing way they end every exchange with passive-aggressive statements about not coming back, filling out bad surveys or spreading nasty reviews to friends, family and co-workers.
Finally, we have people with a “VIP Agenda”; those that claim to be closely related to an actual important person. For every movie star or US Senator I’ve had the pleasure or displeasure of crossing paths with, there are hundreds of supposed brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts & uncles, 3rd grade teachers and ex-college roommates that have commanded the same respect. Those coattail-riding name droppers try every angle to get something for nothing in the name of someone else. They naively ask for and expect access and information about their alleged VIP relatives with delusional confidence. Was there ever a time when people took others at their word? If so, it’s this group that ruined all that.
I hope I have been able to provide a clearer understanding for these distinct VIP classifications as I will be posting endless MB of space in the future for each category respectively – I do after all, love to talk about celebrities…even if the notoriety exists only in their heads.
~The Innkeeper
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