HOTEL LIFE
[HAPPY MONDAY ALL. AS THE KING AND I ARE SADLY BRINGING OUR ROAD TRIP TO AN END (CURRENTLY WE ARE IN THE TOWN WHERE I GREW UP; ANOTHER BEACH WALK THIS MORNING WITH OUR COFFEE AND CROISSANT: CROISSANT FOR ME, AND COFFEE FOR THE KING; HE'S NOT A MORNING PERSON) IT'S GOING TO BE A FLASHBACK POST TODAY. NEW POST ON WEDNESDAY!]
I love hotel living. I’ve been staying at one with my family
for the past seven days and when check out rolls around, I fear they might have
to pry my fingers from the balcony railing, as I will be holding on in hopes of
never leaving.
The most obvious of reasons is of course the full service
nature of the experience. You’re hungry? You dial a phone and say, ‘hi, I’m
hungry I’d like you to bring me food.’ And voila, food is brought up to your
room. You’re done eating, and presto, the food and more importantly, the dirty dishes
disappear. You’re tired, the bed is clean, made and usually lined with way more
pillows than any human needs. And of course, not only is bed then made for you,
but they even come by in the evening and turn down the sheets for you, just in case
this mere exercise is too much for you on holiday. Then there are the
chocolates on your pillow. I mean, what is a better cap on the end of the day
than chocolate. I suppose they could leave a bottle of whisky on your pillow
and two Vicodin, but I’m sure that would make their insurance rates go sky
high.
Hotels are also the most brilliant way to observe society
(depending on where you are staying of course will dictate what part of society
you will be taking in; for example, if your hotel is really a Motel, then you
may have more hookers than let’s say lawyers. Then again, there is probably not
such a huge difference between the two). Just merely sitting by the pool, you
could see how people conduct themselves with other guests and staff, how they
raise their children, what they choose to wear on a holiday – this can be very
amusing – and of course the tensions that arise from traveling en famille. That
can be even more amusing than the outfits. Then there is the in built class
system – the staff tirelessly (and often thanklessly) looking after everyone;
the ‘money’ guests as I like to call them – the ones that stay in the penthouse
and are greeted around every corner as if they’re royalty. And of course the
guests whose room faces the alley.
At the moment, our hotel is like a hotbed for families.
There are children of every conceivable age absolutely everywhere. This can be
great, more playmates for the King, and of course can also be an absolute
headache, as not everyone raises their children with the same…ethos, shall we
say. For example, I witnessed one exchange this morning in the café/shop
downstairs that reminded me that for many, a holiday means a holiday from one’s
senses. So this café serves take out coffee, pastries and the like, as well as gelato
and a whole row of those bins for pick and mix candy. I’m thinking that the
hotel is either trying to narcotize their guest’s children or are strategically
trying to bilk even more money from mom and dad as they know the children will
demand candy round the clock. So anyway, a Mother was there with her kids at
9am and each child had a bag of candy, and a handful of gummy worms hanging out
of their mouths. She would meekly suggest they eat a banana, to wash down their
gummy worms, and they of course told her right where to stuff her banana. Even
the King knew she was in over her head.
Then there is the sheer civility of hotel life – some hotels
that is; if you’re staying at some fleabag with a posse on a stag weekend, I’m
thinking civility will not really come into play. Our hotel is an island of
politeness. Around every corner is a staff member with a giant welcoming smile
ready to greet you with a ‘have a nice day,’ ‘can I assist you with anything,’
or ‘wow, your son is the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen in my entire
life.’ Okay, fine, I made the last one up, but you can tell in their eyes that
they are thinking it. I suppose that for some people this may all ring as
disingenuous (Europeans cringe at the ‘have a nice day,’ factor. Go on admit
it, you do), but if for one week, I can have every door held open for me, and
have complete strangers ask me if they can assist me with absolutely anything
before I can even anticipate what that thing is, I’m thinking sticking around
is well in my favor.