The
increasing popularity of condo-hotel developments has put within reach
a lifestyle previously reserved for the rich and famous: living in a
hotel. Having been living in a hotel for the past few months, I’ve
discovered that it’s not as always as glamorous as it sounds. For any
aspiring Donald Trumps out there, a cautionary tale.
Earlier this year, I was approached about relocating to Montreal to
live on property as a consultant to the management team of Opus
Montreal. With visions of a grandiose lifestyle, I signed a three-month
contract. But just prior to my departure things took an unexpected turn
when the general manager resigned. Suddenly, I would no longer be
working bankers’ hours as an overpaid consultant. I’d be on the front
lines as the hotel’s acting resident manager.
Upon arrival I was installed in chic and modern room with red walls. It
was only 325 square feet, and had no kitchen, balcony or vibrating bed,
but we human beings are natural nesters, and soon it felt like home.
The advantages of hotel living became immediately obvious: I would
never have to run a vacuum, I had an army of staff on standby to cater
to my every whim, and my commute was a short elevator ride to the
lobby. I could order room service every night, watch pay movies, and
raid the mini-bar-all for free. Each night my bed was turned down for
me, chocolates placed on my pillow, and toilet paper rolls tucked into
a perfect fold. I had little bottles of shampoo, blackberry jam and
vodka, all just for me.
The work was all-consuming, but I loved being back in the thick of
things. Then one day it occurred to me I hadn’t left the property in
three days. I had earned respect for the hours I worked, but it was
only because I had no friends and had nothing better to do. I was
getting lazy, spoiled and out of shape. The hotel’s food was amazing,
but sometimes I just wanted a peanut butter sandwich. Serious changes
were in order. I filled my mini-bar with healthy foods, purchased a
microwave and toaster, reduced housekeeping visits to once per week,
and started going to a local gym.
Remember Eloise, that precocious six-year-old in children’s storybooks
who lived in the penthouse suite at New York’s Plaza Hotel? She always
found time for mischief. The difference between Eloise and me is I’m
running the joint, which takes all the fun out of hotel living. I’m
acutely aware that employees are observing me. Not that I’m paranoid,
I’m just a bit neurotic. I don’t want the maid to think I’m a slob, so
I make the bed and wipe down the sink before she cleans my room. I’m
convinced that restaurant staff hate me because, in accordance with
industry practice, I tip only 10% on meals. And while I love how my
clothes come back from dry-cleaning all pressed and fresh-smelling, the
thought of colleagues sorting through my dirty laundry is a bit
unsettling.
One of the allures of hotels is anonymity. Guests can check in, make a
mess, be obnoxious, and check out with impunity. I don’t have that
luxury here. I can’t be grumpy or difficult, and I can’t stumble in
drunk with two hookers on my arms. Not that I ever would, but the fact
that I can’t feels oppressive. There’s a nightclub here, Suco, and I’ve
considered hanging out there and trying to meet some cool, beautiful
Montreal types, but I fear they’ll think I’m a sad, desperate predator,
the resident lounge lizard. Fortunately, it’s not really an issue
because I can’t stay awake past 10:00. Well, not usually. On a recent
Saturday I went out to ‘faire la fête’ with friends from Vancouver and
got back at 5:00 AM. Not wanting staff to see me, I skulked through the
back entrance, only to run smack into a couple of bar staff getting off
shift. ‘Fun night, Mr. Craig?’ one of them asked with a snicker.
When I spend too much time in my room I start to worry I’m becoming
Howard Hughes, with those crazed eyes and long yellow toenails. I try
to get out more, but unlike at home I don’t have the freedom to wander
around in my bathrobe. Even during my time off I feel uncomfortable in
jeans because hotel employees aren’t supposed to wear street clothes in
public areas. I think the rule has something to do with guests not
wanting to know that the staff they’re abusing are real people.
Returning from the gym one night, I had to deal with a situation in the
lobby in a sweaty muscle shirt and shorts. Another time I was crossing
the lobby in my weekend casuals when a gaggle of irate meeting planners
accosted me. Six hours later they released me from their clutches.
When I’m in my street clothes I’m never sure how to behave around
guests. Do I act like one of them and avoid eye contact? Or do I act
like an employee and smile, engaging them in friendly conversation?
I’ve found that the latter approach can lead to frantic elevator-button
pressing, particularly from Torontonians. Around employees I feel
obligated to speak French, or at least to mumble a few badly-pronounced
words to show my deep respect for the culture. But, like other Canadian
students, after four years of university French I discovered I couldn’t
speak a word. I’m taking lessons now, but I’m pretty sure my instructor
thinks I have a severe learning disability. Sometimes it’s just easier
to stay in my room.
When I travel I like to bring a magazine down to the hotel restaurant
and read over dinner. Here I often find myself in the restaurant
holding impromptu meetings with staff and guests, signing purchase
orders, and sometimes even bussing tables while my food goes cold and
my magazine sits unread. I don’t mind, though. Meetings are so much
more enjoyable with a glass of wine in my hand.
In September a citywide convention coincided with a strike at several
Montreal hotels, leaving a number of hotels overbooked. One night I got
mired in a nasty relocate situation with a group of travel-weary
Germans. They returned to Opus the next day, and every time I ran into
them-far too often since we were cohabitating-they stared daggers at
me. To avoid relocating more guests I packed my bags to free up my room
and moved into an office. That night, as I stared up at the ceiling
from my little cot and thought about all the happy people out there in
apartments, I realized I had never been surrounded by so many people
yet felt so alone.
Recently, my contract was extended. These days, I make my own bed, eat
out most of the time, and even have a few friends. Yet the longer I
live in the hotel the more it consumes me. Resistance is futile. I’ve
considered renting an apartment, but the truth is I’d miss it. There’s
no better way to manage a hotel than to eat, sleep and breathe it. But
would I ever move into a condo-hotel complex? Not likely. I don’t mind
opening my own doors.
About The Author
Daniel Edward Craig is a hotel consultant and author of Murder at the
Universe and Murder at Hotel Cinema, mystery novels set luxury hotels.
His blog provides a frank and entertaining look at issues in the hotel
industry at www.danielededwardcraig.com.
Buy the book:: http://astore.amazon.com/hotelier-20/detail/0738711195
