As always, I'm honored to have people send me Guest Kvetches. This one comes from my good friend Jessie.
I love NY. Just as the t-shirt says. I love its long city blocks lined with pre-war deco-esque buildings. I love its ceaseless swelling sea of yellow cabs, mouthy citizens, killer shopping and the-best-meal-I-ever-ate eateries. I love that I saw a tranny Hasid once. New York is awesome.
But on a very recent trip to my favorite mecca of much, I found myself stupefied by a so-called “guest room” in a 4 star establishment. Now, when you’re traveling on business you can’t complain. Your airfare and stay are paid for. You get spending money for meals (or really cute fitted blazers with gold sailor buttons from really cute little hipster shops on Bleeker).
But there are limits.
Upon checking in, I was given the key to room 835. Eager to get inside after a long work and travel day, I slid my key into the slot, waited for the light to flash green and tried to push open the door. But something was obstructing its path. It wouldn’t open more than 7 inches. Strange. So I hoisted my luggage ONTO and OVER MY HEAD, pushed it through the door, sucked in and squeezed myself into the pitch darkness. It was the BED that hindered the door from opening. I therefore stepped ON the bed just to get to the other side of it, and therefore, into the room. I felt around for the “light”. A dim, Ikea desk lamp bolted to one of the four tiny walls. But never mind its low voltage. I had the brightest room in the hotel! Because every few seconds the 5-story, neon Billy Elliot sign would buzz and flash manically into my tiny window and light up the night. Wowee.
I swallowed hard and opened the door to the airplane bathroom provided. The cold, stained, metal fixtures were ripped out of an old 747 for certain. When I flushed, it even popped loudly, startling me. I had to get the fuck out of there immediately.
With my coat still on, I headed back down to the front desk where I asked politely for another room. This coming from a girl who feels badly sending back an appetizer. When the concierge aloofly dismissed my articulate ask and informed me that the “hotel was full” and there are “no other available rooms,” I asked to speak to the manager. When she emerged from behind a black curtain (truth) it took her but a millisecond and the touch of a keyboard to half smile and give me a key to another room.
So wait. The concierge just lied to me? Again, weird.
The second room was definitely a step up. Still tiny, but not scary. And, I didn’t need to exercise contortion to get into it. I did however, continue to enjoy neon mood lighting…but this time from Mamma Mia. At least I know the words to that one.
God love ya, New York.
I love NY. Just as the t-shirt says. I love its long city blocks lined with pre-war deco-esque buildings. I love its ceaseless swelling sea of yellow cabs, mouthy citizens, killer shopping and the-best-meal-I-ever-ate eateries. I love that I saw a tranny Hasid once. New York is awesome.
But on a very recent trip to my favorite mecca of much, I found myself stupefied by a so-called “guest room” in a 4 star establishment. Now, when you’re traveling on business you can’t complain. Your airfare and stay are paid for. You get spending money for meals (or really cute fitted blazers with gold sailor buttons from really cute little hipster shops on Bleeker).
But there are limits.
Upon checking in, I was given the key to room 835. Eager to get inside after a long work and travel day, I slid my key into the slot, waited for the light to flash green and tried to push open the door. But something was obstructing its path. It wouldn’t open more than 7 inches. Strange. So I hoisted my luggage ONTO and OVER MY HEAD, pushed it through the door, sucked in and squeezed myself into the pitch darkness. It was the BED that hindered the door from opening. I therefore stepped ON the bed just to get to the other side of it, and therefore, into the room. I felt around for the “light”. A dim, Ikea desk lamp bolted to one of the four tiny walls. But never mind its low voltage. I had the brightest room in the hotel! Because every few seconds the 5-story, neon Billy Elliot sign would buzz and flash manically into my tiny window and light up the night. Wowee.
I swallowed hard and opened the door to the airplane bathroom provided. The cold, stained, metal fixtures were ripped out of an old 747 for certain. When I flushed, it even popped loudly, startling me. I had to get the fuck out of there immediately.
With my coat still on, I headed back down to the front desk where I asked politely for another room. This coming from a girl who feels badly sending back an appetizer. When the concierge aloofly dismissed my articulate ask and informed me that the “hotel was full” and there are “no other available rooms,” I asked to speak to the manager. When she emerged from behind a black curtain (truth) it took her but a millisecond and the touch of a keyboard to half smile and give me a key to another room.
So wait. The concierge just lied to me? Again, weird.
The second room was definitely a step up. Still tiny, but not scary. And, I didn’t need to exercise contortion to get into it. I did however, continue to enjoy neon mood lighting…but this time from Mamma Mia. At least I know the words to that one.
God love ya, New York.
No comments:
Post a Comment