MANCHÁN MAGAN's tales of a travel addict
Dear hotel-chain,
I just want to make it clear that I do not get a touchy-feely sense of home-from-home on seeing my name flashed up in Aertel lettering on the television when I enter a hotel room. It’s not welcoming, but creepy. The sinister blue glow haunting the room as I lug my bags in is especially egregious since dealing with it requires touching the most bacterially-infected item outside of a quarantine lab – the remote control.
May I call your attention too to the meaning of the word “guest”, which generally refers to someone invited to visit another person’s house or to have a meal at their expense. I am not your guest. I am a punter, a customer, a client. One does not take imprints of one’s guests’ credit-cards or request pre-authorisation lest they steal a bath mat. Nor does one insist on payment of a non-refundable deposit in advance of a guest’s arrival. I admit that occasionally I may have wished I could fine friends who didn’t turn up to things, but if I did, our relationship would shift from friendship to business. They would then be customers, not guests. Clear?
It will be less frustrating for both of us once this is all clarified. If I really was a guest of yours, you wouldn’t charge me for wifi, for example, or for parking in your fetid underground bunker. And I, for my part, wouldn’t leave the bed unmade and the towels thrown in the bath. Remember last week in Galway when I woke up and pressed Channel One four times without my glasses to get to the news on RTÉ 1, and instead found myself watching Robocop, having paid €5 for the privilege? Well, that’s just not how a host treats a guest. That’s scamming.
As proof of your bone fides, you will no doubt point to the gifts you bestow – the free emery board, the shoehorn and Gideon’s bible. Thanks, but to be honest the greatest gift you could give me is to ensure that our dealings together end when I return my key-card and leave your building. That’s worth more than all the shampoo sachets in Sofitel. I never agreed to be your external invigilator and so please don’t email me for feedback. How well I slept or what I thought of the receptionist’s demeanour is really none of your business. No, I would not like to rank my experience out of 10. Hosts and guests don’t generally ask to be ranked, it appears needy. And, anyway, I don’t think you actually want to know: you consciously bought that orange juice knowing it was abrasive and metallic, so, why should I point it out?
Since, we are being frank here, let’s not overlook the hypocrisy of the mini-bar. You claim it’s for my benefit, to help fend off hunger and thirst. Why then stock it with the most addictive items available without a prescription – alcohol, chocolate, crisps and nuts? Am I not meant to notice that these foods are selected for their ability to make me want to drink more?
Face facts, you are an unscrupulous profiteer and I see through your wiles, and your pathetic attempt to woo me by monographing my initials into the pillow case. Was it meant to make me feel special? Because, instead it tormented me trying to work out the logistics of how many combinations of each initial you needed? What if Molly Malone, Marilyn Monroe, Mickey Mouse and I were all staying the same night?
To recap, dear hotel-chain, you provide shelter when I need to rest; that’s as far as our relationship goes. Let’s end this Stockholm Syndrome scenario where I feign gratitude for your mendacity.
Yours sincerely,
A customer.