I won't complain much about hotels, because I feel fortunate that I have a lifestyle that puts me in them every once in a while. I rarely write a bad review on Travelocity. I'm just glad a hotel will take my Groupons and hand me a room key-card that works at least half the time.
Only once, did my husband and I write a scathing review while we were still in the hotel and the result was that I got back to the room late one night and found a bottle of wine, two large wedges of cheese, a sleeve of crackers and an apology note. It was nice, but I wouldn't make a habit of complaining to get free stuff. I am still of the mindset that someone behind the desk at the Hyatt is going to discover my secret: that I'm just a Hubbard girl who doesn't deserve to have strangers empty her trash cans and put clean sheets on her bed every day, when they've barely been slept on because the poolside bar is open until 3 a.m. and I have to be up at 6.
Deserving or not, I've done my fair share of travel. But I still know as little about the hotel and hospitality business as I did as an eighth grader in my very first hotel room. I don't know why hotels do the things they do, and why they don't do the things they don't.
If I could have the ear of the hotelier for just a minute, I have some suggestions.
I would like to trade in the shower cap for extra cotton balls and Q-Tips. I am not ghetto in the '90s, nor do I have to protect an updo from a shower head aimed straight at my beehive bubble, so I can't imagine a scenario where I would need to put a elasticized piece of Saran Wrap on my head. The two mini cotton balls and three Q-Tips that you've provided are not nearly enough to serve my morning toilette. Although you get extra points for lining them up so neatly and finding tiny ziplock bags that are so perfect, I hate to open them. So if we could work out that exchange, that'd be great.
I appreciate the eight pillows on a queen bed for two people, and using all four of my share plus two of my husband's seemed like a good idea at the time, but my neck is sprained now and my vacation pictures all have me tilting my head like a curious robin. It's not my best look. I'd be happy to give up three of my pillows for an extra electrical outlet next to the bed.
Also appreciated is the disappearance of the floral quilted bedspread from all hotel rooms since 2002. Even Sears stopped making them, so I suspect you had a hard time getting your hands on replacements. Or maybe the cleaning staff reported back the fact that the first thing we did when entering the room was to put on a pair of lunch-lady gloves and peel that thing off and put it in the closet.
And speaking of looks, could we maybe get some name-brand shampoo and conditioner? We're only getting a couple of teaspoons, so it couldn't put you out that much. The Dawn Platinum Super Clean Grease Relief isn't cutting it. And the conditioner has to be cajoled out of the tiny bottle, sprinkled with water, shaken up, watered down and reapplied just to get enough out to detangle the rat's nest that the Dawn has left of my hair. I'd be happy to pay another couple dollars per night for some Suave.
Can the bureau. I am never going to unpack my suitcase and put things in dresser drawers like I'm a sad, bachelor traveling salesman in 1956 desperate for a sense of home. I appreciate the top surface, where I can set my stuff, but knock out that base and give me some space to put my dirty laundry bag or a couple of wine bottles.
I can't stress enough how important it is for a vacationing Baby Boomer to have a well-lit magnifying mirror. I'm not going to go into details, but perhaps you have seen me, on Day 4 of my stay, walking past the front desk. And maybe it occurred to you that a decent mirror could make all the diff. Do you think I like looking like this?
At this time, I'd like to give a big "thank you!" to the hotel that gives me hangers that can be taken off the rod in their entirety without a hanger-decapitation process. I promise I'm not going to steal the hangers, any more than I'm going to steal the ice bucket. Attaching your hangers permanently to the bar or rigging up a super skinny bar with tiny hanger heads that only work in your particular hotel chain, or creating a complex hanger-decapitation system that leaves us with a tiny pinhead that, once we load the hanger with our many layers of clothing we have to thread back into the pin-head holder, does prevent me from stealing them. It also makes me want to steal the iron and anything else that's not bolted down.
Keep your giant white robes - those bad boys weigh as much as my carry-on and the one-size-fits-all-obese-giants is just so impractical - and instead give us a nice, well-worn hoodie that we can slip on when we fail to decipher the room thermostat. Or a Slanket would be nice.
Cream. Liquid cream. Without it, I can't drink the coffee in the room. As much as I appreciate an in-room coffee maker, unless you're going to go the whole mile and give me a way to drink it without growing hair on my chest, it's lost on me. That powdered white cancer goes in the closet with the bedspread. Or maybe that news didn't filter up through the ranks yet. Cleaning staff, put that in your next report to the CEO, 'mkay?
Could we get rid of the duplicitous shower gel and bar soap - just one of them please - and instead give us a tiny little dab of toothpaste? The tiniest little bit will be fine. Giving us a 0.5-ounce bottle of Scope is little consolation.
And lastly, thank you for maintaining the old tradition of the Gideon Bible in the nightstand drawer. I don't normally read it, but it's good to know that some things don't change. The idea that some suicidal criminal on the lam turns his life around because of the words of Jesus or Abraham or The Saint Formerly Known as Saul makes me feel better about the fact that I just took the pen, notepad, extra body wash, sugar packets, Scope and the dang shower cap and put it in my suitcase to take home.
