In my search to fill ghastly amounts of free time, I joined two writing groups in Chicagoland within my first week of residency: one just north of the city, right on the edge of Boystown (exactly what it sounds like), and the other in downtown Evanston. I joined the Boystown group (Writers Anonymous) through Meetup.org, but panicked when they couldn't seem to get their act together enough to schedule a meeting for that week. I swiftly RSVP'd to the last space open in the Evanston group (Scribes) only to learn the next morning that Writers Anonymous had finally settled on an official date. Scrambling for a social life, I decided to try out both groups.
Before I went to either group I knew I had an interesting case study on my hands. Writers Anon was meeting in an area of Chicago known for being eclectic, accepting, young, and hip. Evanston, on the other hand, could go one of two ways: rich retirees or Northwestern students. As my sister put it: one group will have a member who's working on a sci-fi screenplay, while writers from the other group probably publish nothing but academic articles and anthologies.
Writers Anon met in a fairly large coffee shop that was most likely once a studio apartment. The walls were made of cracked beige brick and the wooden floor had small holes like driftwood. A post on the Meetup page had said someone would try to secure tables in the back room. I ordered a chai tea and made my way to the bricked archway where I could see people sitting at a random assortment of tables and arm chairs. A petite woman with black hair and cat-like glasses turned in her chair as I cautiously made my way down the three steps. "Are you here for the Meetup group?" she asked. I answered 'yes' and the other three people at her table cleared a space for me to sit.
For the next hour and a half we simply sat there and wrote. There was some chatting every now and then and about ten more writers showed up. Ages ranged from early 20s all the way to late 50s. There were recent college graduates, a professor from Columbia (the country -- I made the mistake and asked about the Chicago college), and just regular people who were working random jobs just so they could support themselves and their writing. A guy next to me, Rick*, told me about a three day trip he and two of his friends were about to take to Charleston, SC. They were going to leave the next day and drive through the night, stay three days and then head back to Chicago. After learning where I was from Rick asked if I would recommend taking a side trip to Savannah during their excursion. Never have I had someone be so enthralled while I recommended things to do and see in Savannah's historic district.
At the end of the hour and a half we all went around and introduced ourselves and what we were writing/like to write. As I had suspected, the majority of the writers there were screenwriters. There were a handful of poets and one woman had just had a piece published in a collection of short stories. Her story was under the genre "steam punk romance", but was apparently lacking in "porny sex." Another guy was writing a screenplay about Apple computers going rogue and taking over the world. Needless to say, I liked this group.
The following night I ventured a lot closer to my home: the Barnes and Noble in downtown Evanston. The Scribes weren't as easy to find as Writers Anonymous. I stalked the coffee shop, eavesdropping on any laptop-bearing groups made of three or more people. Finally I pulled out my own laptop and looked at the profile pictures of the Scribes members. Having found a few distinguishable faces I set off to scour the store. Luckily I didn't have to search long before one of the faces came down the escalator. I asked if he was part of Scribes and he sent me to a corner upstairs where a sign had been posted, reserving three tables for the writing group. There were about fifteen people already situated around the table and right away I could tell that this would be very different from Writers Anonymous. The crowd was definitely a few generations ahead of mine and the men and women were very "put together" and I was even able to spot a few recognizable Talbots pieces. My "wealthy retiree" stereotype of Evanston was proving true, but there was an unexpected sprinkling of nerds who carried the aura of World of Warcraft about them.
I spied an empty corner seat near the window. The chair was flanked by two older women with short gray bobs. The woman on the left wore a light purple sweater set and I couldn't help thinking 'public school librarian' as I looked at her. The lady to my right had a muted neon green (oxymoron, I know, but it's the only way to describe the colour)shirt tucked into high waisted jeans and eyeglass holders strewn with colourful beads: the Artist.
As I unpacked my laptop The Librarian looked at me quizzically. I smiled back and she asked, "Are you at the right group?" The question kind of took me aback, but I finally responded, "This is the writing group, right? Scribes?"
"Yes."
"Yep. This is the right group." I sat down.
Librarian was still staring at me strangely. "So," she said, "did you just decide to take up writing? For fun or for a hobby?"
"Nope. It was my college major." I realized I was clearly the youngest person in the group, but I was confused as to why my presence seemed to be so offending to this woman.
"What do you like to write?" The Artist asked, much more warmly.
I told her I preferred plays and creative nonfiction. I began to ask what she liked to write, but then the face from the escalator called the meeting into session.
Scribes was simultaneously very much what I had expected and not at all what I had expected. Unlike Writers Anonymous, the members of Scribes read submissions from three group members each week and the group meetings were focused on feedback of the pieces. Having been in mourning for all my college writing workshops for nearly two years now, I was very excited at the prospect at having other writers read and critique my pieces once again. Scribes critiquing, however, was much more militaristic than what I had experience at my liberal arts college. Everyone had to format their piece a particular way (prose and poetry) with line numbers and specific margins. Although everyone had read each piece and written comments, only four people could speak about each work and they were restricted to only a few minutes before the iPod timer would blare an embarrassingly loud siren (embarrassing because there were still regular Barnes and Noble patrons around us trying to get work done and the tone sounded like a fire alarm).
One of the pieces being critiqued did take me by surprise. It was a fantasy-horror piece by one of the World of Warcraft-esque men entitled "The Toad Who Killed Frogs". There was a bit of confusion as he had posted Part I as a prelude to the Part II everyone was supposed to be critiquing, but that confused half of the group so some people had only read Part I and others only Part II. Obviously I did not read this piece, but some of the lines I caught were:
"Sauerkraut balls"
"Poked the woodle"
"Probing an orifice, one of his captive frogs..."
I was stunned that everyone kept a straight face. I began scribbling notes in my journal, hoping to somehow capture the absurdity of all these retired professionals having to critique a piece about what I assume is a sadistic serial killing toad.
The meeting ended with a critique on a poem that was submitted by The Librarian. I was amazed because no one seemed to know how to critique poetry. I don't mean this in a "you're not using the right technical term" sort of way. The group members were absolutely daunted by the poem and the notion that they now had to discuss it. One man even said, "Well...it was good? I mean, I didn't see anything to talk about because...well it's POETRY." I wanted to snatch the sheet of paper from someone's hand and say, "Give me a minute. I'LL critique it!" Really, Scribes? You can talk until the alarm sounds about frog orifices, but a simple poem is treated like a disease? Perhaps I should continue to join the group just so the few non-horror-fantasy have a chance of someone taking their craft seriously.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Chicago Revue
Today marks my tenth day in Chicago/Evanston. Not gonna lie -- it has been an emotional roller-coaster. My apartment is huge, but consistently empty and in my first full week at Skokie Theatre I worked a whopping nine hours (and I mean "worked" in the loosest of terms). As someone who finds downtime to be a personal version of Hell I kept myself as busy as humanly possible: I got a temporary library card, passed out thirteen resumes, filled out seven applications, had one job interview, saw a play, volunteered at the Chicago Cultural Center, inquired about ushering at several downtown theaters, ventured into the city five times, went to a drag bingo charity event, joined three meet-up groups, and attempted to audit a class at Northwestern University. Despite how full that list seems to be, when I find myself alone in my apartment all I can worry over is, "Now what?"
Over the past week I struggled to find a purpose in my internship. I wasn't given any assignments and my most productive tasks were making one-hundred copies of a photo and Windex-ing a plastic box. I sat in on the production meeting of a show I'm supposed to be working on (premiering in mid-January), which coincidentally involves Gullah culture in its storyline. For those who don't know, the Barrier Islands of Georgia and South Carolina are STEEPED in Gullah-Geechee history. Islands very near my home still keep the traditions, culture, and language alive. Needless to say, I was ecstatic at the notion of researching such a field of interest and familiarity for me. For Skokie Theatre, however, Gullah culture could not be more foreign.
I first learned about this aspect of the upcoming show, "Black Pearl Sings", when my supervisor began listing things she would like me to research in the near future. "You can look at what it was like to be a woman in the 1930s, a woman in prison in the 1930s, and maybe gender differences of the time." I wrote all of this down. "I'll be looking up more on the songs of the era, Texas in the 1930s, and information on the Ghoul-la culture." I had never heard this word before so I leaned over to see how it was spelled.
"Oh! Gullah?" I asked excitedly.
"Gullah?" Nikki repeated. "Is that how you pronounce it?"
"Are you talking about the slave culture from the South?"
"Yes." She sounded completely baffled that I would know such a random piece of knowledge.
"Yeah. That's all over the islands where I'm from. The Gullah-Geechee culture? There's an island near mine where they even still speak the language."
"You've heard about this?"
"Of course. Gone to festivals, been to the island. It's a big thing down there."
Nikki was dumbfounded. "Wow. So do you think you could do some research on this, too??"
"Definitely," I said, already scribbling down the titles of some books I knew would be helpful. "Maybe I could even call some people who I --"
"Yeah, that's great, Georgia." Nikki was already turning towards her computer, tuning me out. "We can discuss that later."
The next few days at the theatre followed this pattern and I was typically dismissed after only three hours of "work." I began to worry that my decision to leave a paying job on Mackinac had been a mistake. However, I looked forward to the weekend when I would see one of the opening performances of Skokie Theater's new show and was to hear a talk-back after the show as well.
When I arrived at the theatre Sunday afternoon, I did my usual fifteen minute game of "Where's my supervisor?" Upon finding her, Nikki asked if I could record the talk-back after the show. Of course I could. It was the first meaningful task I had been given all week! A man named Stephen approached and began asking Nikki the logistics of the talk-back.(And just to bring everyone up to speed -- the show Skokie Theatre is producing at the moment is a brand new musical comedy revue of songs by Stephen Schwartz. For those of you who do not know Stephen Schwartz, he is the composer and lyricist of the musicals 'Wicked', 'Pippin', and 'Godspell' (among a plethora of others), the movie 'Enchanted', and has even contributed a few songs to 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' and 'The Prince of Egypt'. Basically, a musical god who is on par with Stephen Sondheim ('West Side Story', 'Sweeney Todd', etc.))
I stood next to Nikki awkwardly as she continued to talk with this man. The more they talked about how long the talk-back would last the more I wondered absurdly, "Is this Stephen Schwartz?" I laughed because Number One: I would assume Nikki would introduce me to someone as influential to musical theatre as Stephen Schwartz; and Number Two: wouldn't I feel the tingling of some sort of holy presence if I were one foot away from such a musical god? I certainly felt something around him, but I chalked it up to the awkwardness of not being introduced to somebody when they come up to talk to your friend/acquaintance.
While in my seat waiting for the overture to begin I flipped through the program. My heart dropped as I found the "About the Writer" page. There was Stephen Schwartz. There was the man who was less than two feet away from me a mere five minutes ago. I quickly scanned the auditorium. My musical theatre-senses had been correct: I was in the same room as a walking legend.
My irritation at the missed introduction with Stephen Schwartz dissipated momentarily as the musical began. The songs were catchy and heartfelt and I found myself suppressing tears quite often (this could have also been because the musical was about leaving your friends and family behind...fuck you, Schwartz.).
Right before the last song, Nikki came to where I was sitting and asked if I could go into the lobby and make sure I knew how to work her tape recorder. The song was nearly over when I returned to the back of the house. I surveyed the faces of the audience to see if anyone had become as emotional as I felt during the performance. Thankfully there were a few tear-streaked faces. I jumped when my scanning suddenly landed on the man standing just to the side of Nikki. Stephen Schwartz. In the triangle the three of us formed I was now just inches from the man whose song I had been listening to on my way to the theatre that afternoon. I weighed the pros and cons of "losing my balance" just to nudge his arm; just to say, "I touched Stephen Schwartz!" Luckily, the show ended during this debate and Stephen and Nikki quickly moved forward as the audience began to stand in ovation.
The Musical Mastermind gave a short talk about the beginnings and transformation of the show, which had apparently been twenty-two years in the making (with a fifteen year gap, mind you). A few audience members asked questions and then Nikki announced that Stephen had spoken to the Chicago Dramatist Guild the previous night.
The Chicago Dramatist Guild is a group of playwrights (amateur and professional) currently based in Chicago. This was the event Nikki had originally invited me to and then inexplicably UNinvited me to. Me -- someone who Nikki is very aware is interested in playwriting. I drove five hours north to Atlanta one week just to sit in on a session the Atlanta Dramatist Guild meeting was having with the playwright Gary Garrison. At the end of the talk-back Nikki told me to transcribe everything I had recorded and come back to the theatre on Tuesday. She then walked off, chatting excitedly with a theatre student who had been emailing her recently. I think I'm going to see if the Goodman is looking for volunteers.
Over the past week I struggled to find a purpose in my internship. I wasn't given any assignments and my most productive tasks were making one-hundred copies of a photo and Windex-ing a plastic box. I sat in on the production meeting of a show I'm supposed to be working on (premiering in mid-January), which coincidentally involves Gullah culture in its storyline. For those who don't know, the Barrier Islands of Georgia and South Carolina are STEEPED in Gullah-Geechee history. Islands very near my home still keep the traditions, culture, and language alive. Needless to say, I was ecstatic at the notion of researching such a field of interest and familiarity for me. For Skokie Theatre, however, Gullah culture could not be more foreign.
I first learned about this aspect of the upcoming show, "Black Pearl Sings", when my supervisor began listing things she would like me to research in the near future. "You can look at what it was like to be a woman in the 1930s, a woman in prison in the 1930s, and maybe gender differences of the time." I wrote all of this down. "I'll be looking up more on the songs of the era, Texas in the 1930s, and information on the Ghoul-la culture." I had never heard this word before so I leaned over to see how it was spelled.
"Oh! Gullah?" I asked excitedly.
"Gullah?" Nikki repeated. "Is that how you pronounce it?"
"Are you talking about the slave culture from the South?"
"Yes." She sounded completely baffled that I would know such a random piece of knowledge.
"Yeah. That's all over the islands where I'm from. The Gullah-Geechee culture? There's an island near mine where they even still speak the language."
"You've heard about this?"
"Of course. Gone to festivals, been to the island. It's a big thing down there."
Nikki was dumbfounded. "Wow. So do you think you could do some research on this, too??"
"Definitely," I said, already scribbling down the titles of some books I knew would be helpful. "Maybe I could even call some people who I --"
"Yeah, that's great, Georgia." Nikki was already turning towards her computer, tuning me out. "We can discuss that later."
The next few days at the theatre followed this pattern and I was typically dismissed after only three hours of "work." I began to worry that my decision to leave a paying job on Mackinac had been a mistake. However, I looked forward to the weekend when I would see one of the opening performances of Skokie Theater's new show and was to hear a talk-back after the show as well.
When I arrived at the theatre Sunday afternoon, I did my usual fifteen minute game of "Where's my supervisor?" Upon finding her, Nikki asked if I could record the talk-back after the show. Of course I could. It was the first meaningful task I had been given all week! A man named Stephen approached and began asking Nikki the logistics of the talk-back.(And just to bring everyone up to speed -- the show Skokie Theatre is producing at the moment is a brand new musical comedy revue of songs by Stephen Schwartz. For those of you who do not know Stephen Schwartz, he is the composer and lyricist of the musicals 'Wicked', 'Pippin', and 'Godspell' (among a plethora of others), the movie 'Enchanted', and has even contributed a few songs to 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' and 'The Prince of Egypt'. Basically, a musical god who is on par with Stephen Sondheim ('West Side Story', 'Sweeney Todd', etc.))
I stood next to Nikki awkwardly as she continued to talk with this man. The more they talked about how long the talk-back would last the more I wondered absurdly, "Is this Stephen Schwartz?" I laughed because Number One: I would assume Nikki would introduce me to someone as influential to musical theatre as Stephen Schwartz; and Number Two: wouldn't I feel the tingling of some sort of holy presence if I were one foot away from such a musical god? I certainly felt something around him, but I chalked it up to the awkwardness of not being introduced to somebody when they come up to talk to your friend/acquaintance.
While in my seat waiting for the overture to begin I flipped through the program. My heart dropped as I found the "About the Writer" page. There was Stephen Schwartz. There was the man who was less than two feet away from me a mere five minutes ago. I quickly scanned the auditorium. My musical theatre-senses had been correct: I was in the same room as a walking legend.
My irritation at the missed introduction with Stephen Schwartz dissipated momentarily as the musical began. The songs were catchy and heartfelt and I found myself suppressing tears quite often (this could have also been because the musical was about leaving your friends and family behind...fuck you, Schwartz.).
Right before the last song, Nikki came to where I was sitting and asked if I could go into the lobby and make sure I knew how to work her tape recorder. The song was nearly over when I returned to the back of the house. I surveyed the faces of the audience to see if anyone had become as emotional as I felt during the performance. Thankfully there were a few tear-streaked faces. I jumped when my scanning suddenly landed on the man standing just to the side of Nikki. Stephen Schwartz. In the triangle the three of us formed I was now just inches from the man whose song I had been listening to on my way to the theatre that afternoon. I weighed the pros and cons of "losing my balance" just to nudge his arm; just to say, "I touched Stephen Schwartz!" Luckily, the show ended during this debate and Stephen and Nikki quickly moved forward as the audience began to stand in ovation.
The Musical Mastermind gave a short talk about the beginnings and transformation of the show, which had apparently been twenty-two years in the making (with a fifteen year gap, mind you). A few audience members asked questions and then Nikki announced that Stephen had spoken to the Chicago Dramatist Guild the previous night.
The Chicago Dramatist Guild is a group of playwrights (amateur and professional) currently based in Chicago. This was the event Nikki had originally invited me to and then inexplicably UNinvited me to. Me -- someone who Nikki is very aware is interested in playwriting. I drove five hours north to Atlanta one week just to sit in on a session the Atlanta Dramatist Guild meeting was having with the playwright Gary Garrison. At the end of the talk-back Nikki told me to transcribe everything I had recorded and come back to the theatre on Tuesday. She then walked off, chatting excitedly with a theatre student who had been emailing her recently. I think I'm going to see if the Goodman is looking for volunteers.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Another Suitcase in Another Hall
Well here we go again, folks. 'Lost in the Woods' has once again changed its theme and will now just focus on what is apparently a constantly changing life in my twenties. This seems to be a theme with everyone around my age now. Friends are moving to Seattle, Ann Arbor, Boston, New Mexico, Texas, Kansas, going to grad school, working for bakeries, trying to find any entry-level job possible -- all transient and all just trying to figure out what to do post-undergrad. The general consensus over the past year has just been a resounding, "Where do we land?"
I moved to Chicago four days ago. I came here for a theatre internship that will hopefully be my "foot in the door" for whatever it is I want to do with my life. I found a nice duplex apartment in Evanston about three miles from the theatre where I will be working and am living with two other post-grad twentysomething girls. I'll admit that I am very much the type of person who takes transitions very rough, but after having adjusted to Mackinac so easily, I was ill prepared for the onslaught of emotions that took over the moment I boarded my last mainland bound ferry and have really yet to stop.
Already sad and nervous about having picked up my entire life again to move to a new place alone, I sought solace in my internship. It was going to be great. I was going to meet the other interns (hopefully people similar to myself in age and demeanor), learn about all the exciting stuff I was going to do, and hopefully make some friends. I arrived at Skokie Theatre* just before noon. The monotone secretary buzzed me inside and I entered an enormous, grand lobby. My spirits lifted a little as I thought, "This is a REAL theatre." I don't know what I was expecting, but I was already feeling pleasantly surprised.
The theatre office left a little to be desired for when compared to the lobby. Everyone was inside unstable looking cubicles and there wasn't the normal chatter I've been accustomed to in office rooms. The woman who was to be my supervisor, Nikki*, took me around the office, introducing me to everyone. After fifteen minutes of this she took me into the lobby and loosely went over the season line-up of shows before handing me two plays.
"You can take these home and read them if you'd like. Or a coffee shop maybe?"
I looked at her a moment, confused as to what exactly she was saying. "And come back?" I asked.
"You can just bring them back Wednesday." (It was only Monday and my first day off was already Tuesday.)
"Can I read them here?" I felt a slight anger rise in me. Here I was: sad, scared, and lonely. I had once again uprooted everything to move to a place where I knew almost no one and all for a half hour of introduction?
"Sure! If you'd like. We can discuss the plays when you're done. Come find me when you finish this one and we'll discuss it."
I read the play until about 2:15 p.m. I went and found Nikki. She took the script from me, asked if I liked it and then said I could go home...Let's hope my second day is more encouraging.
I moved to Chicago four days ago. I came here for a theatre internship that will hopefully be my "foot in the door" for whatever it is I want to do with my life. I found a nice duplex apartment in Evanston about three miles from the theatre where I will be working and am living with two other post-grad twentysomething girls. I'll admit that I am very much the type of person who takes transitions very rough, but after having adjusted to Mackinac so easily, I was ill prepared for the onslaught of emotions that took over the moment I boarded my last mainland bound ferry and have really yet to stop.
Already sad and nervous about having picked up my entire life again to move to a new place alone, I sought solace in my internship. It was going to be great. I was going to meet the other interns (hopefully people similar to myself in age and demeanor), learn about all the exciting stuff I was going to do, and hopefully make some friends. I arrived at Skokie Theatre* just before noon. The monotone secretary buzzed me inside and I entered an enormous, grand lobby. My spirits lifted a little as I thought, "This is a REAL theatre." I don't know what I was expecting, but I was already feeling pleasantly surprised.
The theatre office left a little to be desired for when compared to the lobby. Everyone was inside unstable looking cubicles and there wasn't the normal chatter I've been accustomed to in office rooms. The woman who was to be my supervisor, Nikki*, took me around the office, introducing me to everyone. After fifteen minutes of this she took me into the lobby and loosely went over the season line-up of shows before handing me two plays.
"You can take these home and read them if you'd like. Or a coffee shop maybe?"
I looked at her a moment, confused as to what exactly she was saying. "And come back?" I asked.
"You can just bring them back Wednesday." (It was only Monday and my first day off was already Tuesday.)
"Can I read them here?" I felt a slight anger rise in me. Here I was: sad, scared, and lonely. I had once again uprooted everything to move to a place where I knew almost no one and all for a half hour of introduction?
"Sure! If you'd like. We can discuss the plays when you're done. Come find me when you finish this one and we'll discuss it."
I read the play until about 2:15 p.m. I went and found Nikki. She took the script from me, asked if I liked it and then said I could go home...Let's hope my second day is more encouraging.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Angry August
At the beginning of the season I was told that August was the worst month for tourists on the island. Apparently they are angrier than tourists visiting within any of the other summer months. August being my birthday month I refused to believe this as true.
Well, folks, I am here to say that that statement was completely factual. I do not know what it is, but August tourists are angry, entitled, snippy, and just plain rude at times. I have reached the point where the bad guests have set me on such edge that even the nice ones who are just a teaspoon of annoying make me grind my teeth.
One example of the "August Tourist" would be Mr. 101. Mr. and Mrs. 101 stayed at The Orchid for about three nights. They were both very pleasant and amicable and Mr. 101 said he was sad to leave our hotel. I checked him out, made up a baggage tag for his luggage and handed him the claim stub telling him that our porter, John*, would meet them at the dock ten minutes prior to their ferry's departure. Mr. 101 thanked me and he and his wife left the hotel shortly thereafter.
John was our only porter that day, which was fine since we didn't have an exorbitant amount of check-ins and check-outs. Unfortunately for John, five of our check-outs had decided to take 11 a.m. boats, all from different boat lines and one party had ten pieces of luggage. John already had the majority of the luggage at each boatline by the time we were told about the ten-pieces room (from the third floor). John made the ten-piece his top priority and raced them down to the boatline, leaving another room's luggage strapped to his bike basket out front. I was standing at the front desk when Mr. 101 stormed in. He was no longer smiling.
"I would appreciate it if I didn't have to wait until the last SECOND for my bags to get on the boat."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I believe John is on his way down with your bags right now."
"No he's not. They are right THERE," he snapped, jabbing his finger in the direction of John's bike. How was I supposed to know which luggage was his?
"Okay, I'm very sorry, sir. I'll let John know to meet you down there now."
"I want him there NOW. I do not appreciate waiting until the last minute."
I radioed John and, not knowing where Mr. 101 was in relation to John's radio, tried to warn him as professionally as possible that he was about to have a very livid visitor. John later described his interaction with Mr. 101:
Mr. 101 stormed at John the moment he arrived on the dock with the bags. "Next time I would appreciate not waiting until the last minute for my bags to arrive."
"I'm very sorry, sir. We always tell people to expect us about ten minutes before the boat departs."
"Well I wasn't told that and next time we'll just have to request that our bags be brought here TWENTY minutes before the boat departs."
"Sir, your bags are here within the ten minute time frame and, as you can see, your boat hasn't even arrived yet."
"Next time we'll just ask that our bags be brought down here twenty minutes before the boat departs."
"Okay, sir. Whatever you might want to work out the next time with the front desk."
The next irate guest came a mere week after Mr. 101. John radioed that the Dinga party had just arrived at the Star Line dock. I went to the front desk and pulled out the Dingas' registration card and waited for them to arrive. (Our manager likes for us to greet guests by saying, "Hi!?" because it shows we're "on top of things.") A middle-aged couple walked in holding a few small bags. "Hi," I said, "how are you two?" They made no verbal reply, but the husband nodded his head. "Dinga?" I asked. No reply. The woman bent down to get something out of her bag. "Dinga?" I said again. The woman bolted upright and gave me a look as though I had just uttered a racial slur. "Are you the Dingas?" I asked more hesitantly.
"I didn't say anything to you," the woman snapped. "I didn't say a single word toyou since we walked through that door."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, a bit taken aback at how angry the woman with the fake blond hair sounded. "Are you not the Dingas?"
"No. We're not. We're the Kolariks." (That's right, no asterisk with time. This is their REAL name. Karma, Pat and Greg Kolarik of Denmark, Wisconsin. Karma.)
"Oh, okay." I scrambled to pull their registration card out, hoping to defuse the situation. A man came around the corner and asked when the restaurant opened for dinner. I told him 5pm. He asked if I could make him a dinner reservation for five people at 6pm. I said 'yes' thinking he would then wait for me to finish with the Kolariks, but instead he started to walk out the door. I called for him to stop and poked my head into the office to ask Sandy to help him. I then focused all of my attention back on the Kolariks.
Pat seemed very offended by everything I asked, which consisted of, "We have you staying for two nights, is that correct? And there are two of you in the room? Can you just verify this contact information and sign here, please?" As they looked over their contact info another party arrived wanting to check in (the real Dingas!). I asked the Kolariks for a credit card to open a house account and as I went into the office to swipe the card I asked Mickey to check in the real Dingas.
Now, I will admit, this was very hectic. Sandy was at the right side of the front desk still talking to the party of five about dinner; Mickey was in the middle checking in the Dingas; I was at the left giving the rest of the spiel to the Kolariks. It was controlled choas. We were each completely focused on the specific people we were talking to, making direct eye-contact and everything so that the guests were sure to understand everything we were saying.
I started to tell Pat and Greg about the complimentary breakfast we had available in the morning when Pat, in the middle of my sentence, snipped to her husband, "It would be nice if they took people just one at a time." Despite the fact that Pat the Pissed looked so angry that tears seemed to be welling in her eyes (or maybe that was a side effect from all the bleach she must use to create her neon coloured hair), I was pretty fed up with her blatantly rude attitude. It was childish, but I rushed through the rest of my spiel at a rate I knew they couldn't understand. I then asked if our porters had met them at the dock.
"No one met us," Mrs. Kolarik nearly shouted, her hair remaining rigid as her head snapped back like an angry chicken.
"Did you not check any luggage?" I asked. The bags they were carrying were equivalent to the size of plastic grocery bags.
"We. WANTED. To. Carry. OUR. OWN. BAGS." Pat the Pissed was very close to hysterics now.
"Okay," I said, swiftly losing my patience. "This is going to be fun." I grabbed their key from under the desk. "Let me show to you your room!" (Had my manager heard my overtly sarcastic tone she probably would have given the wretchedly bleached woman a free room.) As I led the Kolariks up the stairs I asked where they were visiting from. No answer. As we reached the second floor I toyed with the idea of "accidentally" leading them to the thirdfloor (we don't have an elevator and they were not exactly at the peak of physical fitness) if they continued with the silent treatment. The husband finally responded, "Greenbay, Wisconsin." No other words were spoken between us because my professional filter system had completely disappeared and I'm sure Pat the Pissed would have had a conniption had I asked her the only other question I could think of: "Did you let someone to that to your hair or did you do it yourself?" I opened their room, gave the husband the key, and left. As I raced away from the tension filled room I secretly wished a sudden heat wave would hit the island. The Kolariks' room did not have air conditioning.
Thankfully, Pat the Pissed and I never crossed such intimate paths during the rest of her stay. My office manager and I hypothesized what might have set her in such a foul mood the moment she arrived on the island. The top five reasons were:
1. She just found out her husband is cheating on her.
2. Mr. Kolarik had forgotten they had come to Mackinac Island for their anniversary.
3. She just learned that Mr. Kolarik fathered an illegitimate child.
4. Her scalp burned from the bleach.
5. She was jealous that my blond hair is 100% natural.
I was off the day Pat and Greg checked out. My coworkers recounted the wonderful process of saying goodbye to the Kolariks:
At The Orchid, we require all of our rooms to be prepaid. However, if someone wants to change their method of payment (for example, put it on a different card or pay with cash) then we simply refund to the original card during checkout and use whatever they want instead. Pat wanted to use a $500 American Express giftcard. She explained this to Gretel and stated, "I want to speak to the person who will be running this card. I do not want them to run this card BEFORE I speak to them." Jenny, our manager, was standing behind the glass pane separating the front desk from the back office, waiting to swipe this card. Gretel took a step back to repeat these instructions to Jenny.
"Do not charge that card!" Pat yelped. "Do you hear me, young lady? Are you LISTENING to me? I want to talk to her before you swipe that card!"
Gretel stood there for a moment, shell shocked by the abrasiveness of this woman who she had never even met until now. "Yes, ma'am. I understood you." She took another step back to talk to Jenny.
"Do NOT swipe that CARD. Are. You. LISTENING. To. Me?"
Jenny poked her head around the corner. "Ma'am, I heard you. I am not going to swipe your card. If you will just give me one moment, please."
John was standing next to the front desk. "Is there something the matter, ma'am?" he asked.
"It's nothing to do with you," Pat replied, "it's THEM." She made a grand gesture with her hands, indicating the front desk. "THEY just don't listen. They are like robots. Robots! YOU have been great. It's all of THEM I have a problem with." (Let me remind you that the only interaction she had had with the front desk during her entire two-night stay was at check-in with me and now check-out with Gretel. I also later learned that she had already inquired from our other porter, "Who can I speak to about the front desk?" to which he replied, "Uhh...the front desk?")
Jenny emerged from the office and asked the badly-bleached woman what she needed. Pat said that she would like to talk to Jenny about some "complaints." Jenny took her into the owner's office where Pat ranted and raved about us "robots." I am not sure why she had a personal vandetta against us from the moment I said, "Dinga?" but apparently the straw that broke the flourescent coloured camel's back was when Pat witnessed Summer standing on the steps of The Orchid, looking for a taxi. As Summer stood there, completely immersed in her taxi-searching world, an older woman was coming up the stairs. Summer did not register the woman and remained fixed in her place, forcing the older woman to move around her. I am sure that had Summer seen the woman she would have moved, but this instance (as well as whatever else was eating at Pat the Pissed) is what finally sent Mrs. Kolarik over the edge.
Amazingly, Pat did not demand a free room or any type of compensation. She simply wanted to let Jenny know how horrible we all had been. I am also surprised she has yet to write about this experience on Trip Advisor. Since her departure I sporadically look at our page of reviews and scan for the word "robots."
Well, folks, I am here to say that that statement was completely factual. I do not know what it is, but August tourists are angry, entitled, snippy, and just plain rude at times. I have reached the point where the bad guests have set me on such edge that even the nice ones who are just a teaspoon of annoying make me grind my teeth.
One example of the "August Tourist" would be Mr. 101. Mr. and Mrs. 101 stayed at The Orchid for about three nights. They were both very pleasant and amicable and Mr. 101 said he was sad to leave our hotel. I checked him out, made up a baggage tag for his luggage and handed him the claim stub telling him that our porter, John*, would meet them at the dock ten minutes prior to their ferry's departure. Mr. 101 thanked me and he and his wife left the hotel shortly thereafter.
John was our only porter that day, which was fine since we didn't have an exorbitant amount of check-ins and check-outs. Unfortunately for John, five of our check-outs had decided to take 11 a.m. boats, all from different boat lines and one party had ten pieces of luggage. John already had the majority of the luggage at each boatline by the time we were told about the ten-pieces room (from the third floor). John made the ten-piece his top priority and raced them down to the boatline, leaving another room's luggage strapped to his bike basket out front. I was standing at the front desk when Mr. 101 stormed in. He was no longer smiling.
"I would appreciate it if I didn't have to wait until the last SECOND for my bags to get on the boat."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I believe John is on his way down with your bags right now."
"No he's not. They are right THERE," he snapped, jabbing his finger in the direction of John's bike. How was I supposed to know which luggage was his?
"Okay, I'm very sorry, sir. I'll let John know to meet you down there now."
"I want him there NOW. I do not appreciate waiting until the last minute."
I radioed John and, not knowing where Mr. 101 was in relation to John's radio, tried to warn him as professionally as possible that he was about to have a very livid visitor. John later described his interaction with Mr. 101:
Mr. 101 stormed at John the moment he arrived on the dock with the bags. "Next time I would appreciate not waiting until the last minute for my bags to arrive."
"I'm very sorry, sir. We always tell people to expect us about ten minutes before the boat departs."
"Well I wasn't told that and next time we'll just have to request that our bags be brought here TWENTY minutes before the boat departs."
"Sir, your bags are here within the ten minute time frame and, as you can see, your boat hasn't even arrived yet."
"Next time we'll just ask that our bags be brought down here twenty minutes before the boat departs."
"Okay, sir. Whatever you might want to work out the next time with the front desk."
The next irate guest came a mere week after Mr. 101. John radioed that the Dinga party had just arrived at the Star Line dock. I went to the front desk and pulled out the Dingas' registration card and waited for them to arrive. (Our manager likes for us to greet guests by saying, "Hi!
"I didn't say anything to you," the woman snapped. "I didn't say a single word toyou since we walked through that door."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, a bit taken aback at how angry the woman with the fake blond hair sounded. "Are you not the Dingas?"
"No. We're not. We're the Kolariks." (That's right, no asterisk with time. This is their REAL name. Karma, Pat and Greg Kolarik of Denmark, Wisconsin. Karma.)
"Oh, okay." I scrambled to pull their registration card out, hoping to defuse the situation. A man came around the corner and asked when the restaurant opened for dinner. I told him 5pm. He asked if I could make him a dinner reservation for five people at 6pm. I said 'yes' thinking he would then wait for me to finish with the Kolariks, but instead he started to walk out the door. I called for him to stop and poked my head into the office to ask Sandy to help him. I then focused all of my attention back on the Kolariks.
Pat seemed very offended by everything I asked, which consisted of, "We have you staying for two nights, is that correct? And there are two of you in the room? Can you just verify this contact information and sign here, please?" As they looked over their contact info another party arrived wanting to check in (the real Dingas!). I asked the Kolariks for a credit card to open a house account and as I went into the office to swipe the card I asked Mickey to check in the real Dingas.
Now, I will admit, this was very hectic. Sandy was at the right side of the front desk still talking to the party of five about dinner; Mickey was in the middle checking in the Dingas; I was at the left giving the rest of the spiel to the Kolariks. It was controlled choas. We were each completely focused on the specific people we were talking to, making direct eye-contact and everything so that the guests were sure to understand everything we were saying.
I started to tell Pat and Greg about the complimentary breakfast we had available in the morning when Pat, in the middle of my sentence, snipped to her husband, "It would be nice if they took people just one at a time." Despite the fact that Pat the Pissed looked so angry that tears seemed to be welling in her eyes (or maybe that was a side effect from all the bleach she must use to create her neon coloured hair), I was pretty fed up with her blatantly rude attitude. It was childish, but I rushed through the rest of my spiel at a rate I knew they couldn't understand. I then asked if our porters had met them at the dock.
"No one met us," Mrs. Kolarik nearly shouted, her hair remaining rigid as her head snapped back like an angry chicken.
"Did you not check any luggage?" I asked. The bags they were carrying were equivalent to the size of plastic grocery bags.
"We. WANTED. To. Carry. OUR. OWN. BAGS." Pat the Pissed was very close to hysterics now.
"Okay," I said, swiftly losing my patience. "This is going to be fun." I grabbed their key from under the desk. "Let me show to you your room!" (Had my manager heard my overtly sarcastic tone she probably would have given the wretchedly bleached woman a free room.) As I led the Kolariks up the stairs I asked where they were visiting from. No answer. As we reached the second floor I toyed with the idea of "accidentally" leading them to the thirdfloor (we don't have an elevator and they were not exactly at the peak of physical fitness) if they continued with the silent treatment. The husband finally responded, "Greenbay, Wisconsin." No other words were spoken between us because my professional filter system had completely disappeared and I'm sure Pat the Pissed would have had a conniption had I asked her the only other question I could think of: "Did you let someone to that to your hair or did you do it yourself?" I opened their room, gave the husband the key, and left. As I raced away from the tension filled room I secretly wished a sudden heat wave would hit the island. The Kolariks' room did not have air conditioning.
Thankfully, Pat the Pissed and I never crossed such intimate paths during the rest of her stay. My office manager and I hypothesized what might have set her in such a foul mood the moment she arrived on the island. The top five reasons were:
1. She just found out her husband is cheating on her.
2. Mr. Kolarik had forgotten they had come to Mackinac Island for their anniversary.
3. She just learned that Mr. Kolarik fathered an illegitimate child.
4. Her scalp burned from the bleach.
5. She was jealous that my blond hair is 100% natural.
I was off the day Pat and Greg checked out. My coworkers recounted the wonderful process of saying goodbye to the Kolariks:
At The Orchid, we require all of our rooms to be prepaid. However, if someone wants to change their method of payment (for example, put it on a different card or pay with cash) then we simply refund to the original card during checkout and use whatever they want instead. Pat wanted to use a $500 American Express giftcard. She explained this to Gretel and stated, "I want to speak to the person who will be running this card. I do not want them to run this card BEFORE I speak to them." Jenny, our manager, was standing behind the glass pane separating the front desk from the back office, waiting to swipe this card. Gretel took a step back to repeat these instructions to Jenny.
"Do not charge that card!" Pat yelped. "Do you hear me, young lady? Are you LISTENING to me? I want to talk to her before you swipe that card!"
Gretel stood there for a moment, shell shocked by the abrasiveness of this woman who she had never even met until now. "Yes, ma'am. I understood you." She took another step back to talk to Jenny.
"Do NOT swipe that CARD. Are. You. LISTENING. To. Me?"
Jenny poked her head around the corner. "Ma'am, I heard you. I am not going to swipe your card. If you will just give me one moment, please."
John was standing next to the front desk. "Is there something the matter, ma'am?" he asked.
"It's nothing to do with you," Pat replied, "it's THEM." She made a grand gesture with her hands, indicating the front desk. "THEY just don't listen. They are like robots. Robots! YOU have been great. It's all of THEM I have a problem with." (Let me remind you that the only interaction she had had with the front desk during her entire two-night stay was at check-in with me and now check-out with Gretel. I also later learned that she had already inquired from our other porter, "Who can I speak to about the front desk?" to which he replied, "Uhh...the front desk?")
Jenny emerged from the office and asked the badly-bleached woman what she needed. Pat said that she would like to talk to Jenny about some "complaints." Jenny took her into the owner's office where Pat ranted and raved about us "robots." I am not sure why she had a personal vandetta against us from the moment I said, "Dinga?" but apparently the straw that broke the flourescent coloured camel's back was when Pat witnessed Summer standing on the steps of The Orchid, looking for a taxi. As Summer stood there, completely immersed in her taxi-searching world, an older woman was coming up the stairs. Summer did not register the woman and remained fixed in her place, forcing the older woman to move around her. I am sure that had Summer seen the woman she would have moved, but this instance (as well as whatever else was eating at Pat the Pissed) is what finally sent Mrs. Kolarik over the edge.
Amazingly, Pat did not demand a free room or any type of compensation. She simply wanted to let Jenny know how horrible we all had been. I am also surprised she has yet to write about this experience on Trip Advisor. Since her departure I sporadically look at our page of reviews and scan for the word "robots."
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
"911, What's Your Location?"
Yesterday my office manager received a call from a frantic guest saying that her nephew had been hurt in a biking accident. She asked to be connected to her mother's room and for Jenny to contact the medical center. My office manager immediately jumped into action, calling the center and getting the name and number of the doctor on-call. Of course, this being Mackinac Island, she had to leave a voicemail. Soon afterwards the grandmother of the boy came rushing up to the front desk, also asking where the medical center was located. We explained that there wasn't actually a doctor at the medical center and asked that she wait until we heard back. By this point, the aunt and nephew were on their way back to the hotel. We had a wheel chair waiting and had already alerted our night manager, who is also the assistant fire chief on the island.
The emergency? A deep cut on the knee. Not exactly a cause to be all up in arms and radioing 911, but I think emergency officials see so little action here that a hangnail could bring the entire police force. There was indeed a lot of blood, however, and the poor kid was crying like his leg would never be the same. The owner of the hotel, Mrs. Kate*, grabbed some washcloths from the maid closet and pressed it to the sobbing boy's knee. As the aunt and grandmother wiped away the blood, Mrs. Kate came into the office and grabbed a roll of scotch-tape. My coworker, Gretel*, and I questioned whether it was her plan to tape the hand towels to the boy's leg. Low and behold it was.
As far as emergencies go, this wasn't exactly one where time was of the essence. I think the best parts were watching Mrs. Kate scotch-tape the cloths to the boy's leg and later hearing that some of the servers had told my roommate, the infamous Summer, that the boy had lost his pinky. And better yet -- she believed them.
This incident brings me to another emergency that befell The Orchid nearly a month and a half ago. Summer and I were working the night shift together when we received a phone call from the dining room. Not wanting Summer to strain herself, I answered the phone for perhaps the twentieth time that night. It was the hostess, Krissy*, telling me to call 911 because a woman had fallen outside of the restaurant.
"911?" I repeated, a bit shocked at the request.
"That's what her daughter said."
"Did she break something?"
"I don't know. Her daughter said she just fell outside the door and told us to call 911."
"Um okay."
Summer looked at me as I hung-up. "What's up?" she asked.
"Krissy said someone fell outside the dining room and her daughter wants us to call 911."
"She fell?"
"I guess so. Do I really call 911 for that? That feels a bit extreme if she just tripped."
"If that's what the daughter wants, though."
I stared at the phone for a moment. I had never called 911 before and still had the childhood notion that 911 was only for life and death situations and calling for anything else was akiillegal. Someone tripping didn't feel like an actual emergency.
"911, what's your location?"
"Oh, I'm at The Orchid Hotel on Mackinac Island in Michigan and apparently someone fell outside our restaurant?"
"Yes, ma'am. We have already been altered to the situation and have an emergency vehicle on the way."
"Oh." I should have known that our night manager would have radioed the incident in already.
"Do you know what happened, ma'am?"
"I just know that she fell."
"Do you know how old the woman is?"
"I actually can't see her. The dining room called me and just said that a woman fell and that I needed to call 911. I can't see where any of this is happening. The woman has a daughter so I'm guessing she's middle aged maybe? 30 to 60?"
"Okay, ma'am, thank you. The ambulance should be there shortly."
"Okay...thanks."
The phone barely touched the receiver before Krissy came tearing down the hallway. She threw herself onto the front desk. "She's not breathing!" she exclaimed.
"What?!"
"She's not breathing!"
"I thought she just fell!"
"She collapsed outside the door and now she's not breathing. Tom's performing CPR."
"Holy shit. The ambulance is on its way. Tom had already radioed it in."
"Okay."
"How old is the woman?"
"I don't know. Forties maybe?"
"Okay."
Krissy ran back down the hall. I called 911 again.
"911, what's your location?"
"Hi, it's The Orchid again on Mackinac Island."
"Yes, ma'am."
"The woman's not breathing."
"Okay, ma'am, the emergency vehicle is on the way." The medical center is less than a mile away from The Orchid. I wanted to ask how it could possibly be taking this long even at a normal driving speed.
"And apparently the woman looks about in her forties."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"I didn't know if you still needed that."
"I will let the respondents know, thank you."
"Okay. Um...bye."
Summer and I sat in stunned silence. "I thought she just tripped," I said, feeling slightly guilty for not having taken the situation more seriously to begin with. "They didn't make it sound that bad," Summer confirmed. We went into the lobby that looked onto the pathway to the dining room. From the panoramic windows we could see Tom furiously performing chest pumps, calling out instructions to Krissy. We couldn't see the woman. To the side of the porch I noticed a girl about my age standing off to the side, sobbing hysterically into a cellphone. It took me a few moments, but I finally recognized her as the daughter of a mother-daughter couple I had given a hotel tour to the previous afternoon. She and her mother were taking a girls-only vacation.
Summer and I watched the scene unfold until the ambulance arrived. Tom met the paramedics and rushed the gurney down the pathway. One of the responders took the daughter up the road that led to the medical center. The office phone rang and I dashed to answer it. It was a man inquiring about room rates. I felt oddly disrespectful talking so casually about our accomodations after having watched such a tragic scene.
A half hour later our dining room manager, who is also Tom's mother, walked into the office. She asked if we had heard about all the excitement. Summer and I said that we had and asked if she knew the status of the woman. She replied, "I don't know, but the fact that Tom went over in the boat to St. Ignace with them tells us she's probably going to be okay."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because as morbid as it sounds, Tom wouldn't ride over to St. Ignace with a dead body."
Three hours later, Tom returned to the office. "She's not deadsies anymore," he said. "She was deader-than-dead for a while, but not anymore. It's good when they're not deadsies." Good to know we're in such sympathetic hands.
The emergency? A deep cut on the knee. Not exactly a cause to be all up in arms and radioing 911, but I think emergency officials see so little action here that a hangnail could bring the entire police force. There was indeed a lot of blood, however, and the poor kid was crying like his leg would never be the same. The owner of the hotel, Mrs. Kate*, grabbed some washcloths from the maid closet and pressed it to the sobbing boy's knee. As the aunt and grandmother wiped away the blood, Mrs. Kate came into the office and grabbed a roll of scotch-tape. My coworker, Gretel*, and I questioned whether it was her plan to tape the hand towels to the boy's leg. Low and behold it was.
As far as emergencies go, this wasn't exactly one where time was of the essence. I think the best parts were watching Mrs. Kate scotch-tape the cloths to the boy's leg and later hearing that some of the servers had told my roommate, the infamous Summer, that the boy had lost his pinky. And better yet -- she believed them.
This incident brings me to another emergency that befell The Orchid nearly a month and a half ago. Summer and I were working the night shift together when we received a phone call from the dining room. Not wanting Summer to strain herself, I answered the phone for perhaps the twentieth time that night. It was the hostess, Krissy*, telling me to call 911 because a woman had fallen outside of the restaurant.
"911?" I repeated, a bit shocked at the request.
"That's what her daughter said."
"Did she break something?"
"I don't know. Her daughter said she just fell outside the door and told us to call 911."
"Um okay."
Summer looked at me as I hung-up. "What's up?" she asked.
"Krissy said someone fell outside the dining room and her daughter wants us to call 911."
"She fell?"
"I guess so. Do I really call 911 for that? That feels a bit extreme if she just tripped."
"If that's what the daughter wants, though."
I stared at the phone for a moment. I had never called 911 before and still had the childhood notion that 911 was only for life and death situations and calling for anything else was akiillegal. Someone tripping didn't feel like an actual emergency.
"911, what's your location?"
"Oh, I'm at The Orchid Hotel on Mackinac Island in Michigan and apparently someone fell outside our restaurant?"
"Yes, ma'am. We have already been altered to the situation and have an emergency vehicle on the way."
"Oh." I should have known that our night manager would have radioed the incident in already.
"Do you know what happened, ma'am?"
"I just know that she fell."
"Do you know how old the woman is?"
"I actually can't see her. The dining room called me and just said that a woman fell and that I needed to call 911. I can't see where any of this is happening. The woman has a daughter so I'm guessing she's middle aged maybe? 30 to 60?"
"Okay, ma'am, thank you. The ambulance should be there shortly."
"Okay...thanks."
The phone barely touched the receiver before Krissy came tearing down the hallway. She threw herself onto the front desk. "She's not breathing!" she exclaimed.
"What?!"
"She's not breathing!"
"I thought she just fell!"
"She collapsed outside the door and now she's not breathing. Tom's performing CPR."
"Holy shit. The ambulance is on its way. Tom had already radioed it in."
"Okay."
"How old is the woman?"
"I don't know. Forties maybe?"
"Okay."
Krissy ran back down the hall. I called 911 again.
"911, what's your location?"
"Hi, it's The Orchid again on Mackinac Island."
"Yes, ma'am."
"The woman's not breathing."
"Okay, ma'am, the emergency vehicle is on the way." The medical center is less than a mile away from The Orchid. I wanted to ask how it could possibly be taking this long even at a normal driving speed.
"And apparently the woman looks about in her forties."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"I didn't know if you still needed that."
"I will let the respondents know, thank you."
"Okay. Um...bye."
Summer and I sat in stunned silence. "I thought she just tripped," I said, feeling slightly guilty for not having taken the situation more seriously to begin with. "They didn't make it sound that bad," Summer confirmed. We went into the lobby that looked onto the pathway to the dining room. From the panoramic windows we could see Tom furiously performing chest pumps, calling out instructions to Krissy. We couldn't see the woman. To the side of the porch I noticed a girl about my age standing off to the side, sobbing hysterically into a cellphone. It took me a few moments, but I finally recognized her as the daughter of a mother-daughter couple I had given a hotel tour to the previous afternoon. She and her mother were taking a girls-only vacation.
Summer and I watched the scene unfold until the ambulance arrived. Tom met the paramedics and rushed the gurney down the pathway. One of the responders took the daughter up the road that led to the medical center. The office phone rang and I dashed to answer it. It was a man inquiring about room rates. I felt oddly disrespectful talking so casually about our accomodations after having watched such a tragic scene.
A half hour later our dining room manager, who is also Tom's mother, walked into the office. She asked if we had heard about all the excitement. Summer and I said that we had and asked if she knew the status of the woman. She replied, "I don't know, but the fact that Tom went over in the boat to St. Ignace with them tells us she's probably going to be okay."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because as morbid as it sounds, Tom wouldn't ride over to St. Ignace with a dead body."
Three hours later, Tom returned to the office. "She's not deadsies anymore," he said. "She was deader-than-dead for a while, but not anymore. It's good when they're not deadsies." Good to know we're in such sympathetic hands.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Baby, It's Hot in Here
Sticking with the theme of the heatwave striking the upper Midwest this week, let's talk about air conditioning. Many places in the north do not have air conditioning, which is understandable given they only really need it two weeks out of the year. The Orchid finally installed AC this summer, but only in certain rooms that need it most (i.e. hit with direct sunlight, don't receive much of a lake breeze, etc). Unfortunately, this does come as a bit of a shocker to many of our guests (for example, the woman yesterday who suddenly snipped, "That's unacceptable!" when she learned her room did not have AC). And now, for the tale of the women who needed ice buckets dumped over their heads (only as a comfort to them, of course).
Last week, Mickey, our one and only male desk clerk, was working the midnight shift, while I did the 10pm shift. The midnight person always gets a half hour break and Mickey (who is a wonderful person for volunteering to take ALL of the midnight shifts) typically takes this sometime between 9 and 10pm because things have supposedly slowed down by then. At 9:30 Mickey went on his break and I started working on the guest list for the next day. The door shut behind Mickey and the phone rang. It was the guest in room 320.
“Georgia,” she said, “I am not one to complain, but I...well I just gotta say that I am disgusted. DI-sgusted with our room.”
“Oh?” This is something I certainly never expected to hear from a guest given the insane attention to cleanliness the owner and housekeeping puts into the hotel.
“Yes. Our bathroom is filthy. FILTHY. It smells musty, it’s hot and muggy, there is mold in the tiles. I mean, I don’t mean to complain, but we are just disgusted. DI-sgusted. I mean, I was a travel agent and I would never recommend someone to come here. We are just disgusted!”
“I am so sorry, ma’am.”
“I mean, I have stayed in some of the best hotels and this one...well this is just not good. It’s filthy! We’re just...we’re disgusted, Georgia.”
At this point I want to just say, “Yeah, I get it. DI-sgusted.”
“We were wondering,” Never Complains began (I already knew what was coming by the tone of her voice), “if you might have any suites available for a complimentary upgrade because we just feel that we cannot stay in this room any longer. I mean, we have children! This is unsanitary.”
I pulled up the room list on the computer. Never Complains was traveling with the guests in 319. They would need a room that could accommodate all four people. Unfortunately for them, they were staying for two more nights, which greatly limited what might be available.
“Well, ma’am,” I said, “it looks like the only suite we have available for the next two nights is our Sunset Suite, but it only has a king bed so it could not accommodate all four of you.”
“What’s that suite like?”
“It has a king bed, a sitting area and a fourteen-window panoramic view overlooking the lake.”
“It just has the one bed?”
“Yes.”
“Well that wouldn’t fit all four of us,” she snapped.
“Yes, ma’am. I know.”
“Well, Georgia, we are just disgusted by our room. I mean, we’re paying nearly $500 a night and it's hot. You're using plastic shower liners which is a breeding ground for germs and the rubber bathmats are - we just can't use them. They are a complete health code violation. We are just disgusted. DI –”
“Ma’am, I’m going to give my manager a call and see what we can do about this and then I’ll call you back. Okay?”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
I hung up and called our night manger, Paul. Paul told me what I already knew – all we can do is move the guests to other rooms with two queen beds. Basically, rooms exactly like their current ones. I called 320 and explained the situation. “I could show you some of the rooms we have available if you would like,” I offered. I heard Never Complains whisper to who I presumed was the mother in 319 (the two rooms were mother and daughter pairs), “They don’t have any suites.” I waited while they continued to talk in hushed tones. Finally I repeated myself, “I could show you some of the rooms we have available.”
“Are they nice rooms?” Never Complains asked. “Are the bathrooms better than this one? I mean, this one is just filthy and disgusting! We cannot stay in here.”
“How about I come up and show you some of the rooms?”
“I don’t know if it would be worth it,” Never Complains said to 319. “Where are they?” she said back into the phone.
“Well, two of them are right next to you.”
“I just don’t know. There’s no suite you can upgrade us to?”
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry. There’s just that Sunset Suite that cannot accommodate all of you.”
“Oh...well I guess we’ll look at some of the rooms then.”
I called Paul so he could watch the desk while I went up to deal with the Problem Sisters. Upon entering Room 320 I was immediately shown the bathroom. “I’m a nurse,” 319 immediately began (she was less boisterous than the woman who had called the front desk so I knew she wasn’t Never Complains), “and this whole place is really a health hazard.”
“Can’t you smell the must?” Never Complains asked. I sniffed and looked around blankly. “Well we opened the windows so that aired it out,” she explained.
“The plastic shower liner is really awful,” The Nurse said, bringing my attention back to the bio-hazard zone. “And rubber bath mats? That’s what traps in the smell and dirt and germs. I’m here with my daughter and I don’t find this safe for children.”
“I’m really sorry, ma’am.”
“Do you see the mold?”
I did not, but I suppose that wasn’t actually the point as The Nurse then directed my attention back to the bathmat instead. I looked around the room as Never Complains and The Nurse continued to talk about the plethora of health code violations within the bathroom. A curious thing stood out – both women were traveling with their young daughters (10 and 14), yet there was nothing to signify a teenager was sleeping in the room. Only items obviously belonging to the two women were strewn about the place. At The Orchid (and pretty much all hotels) there is a policy that anyone under 18 must be in a room with at least one adult. Before I had gone up to show the women the rooms, I had taken a look at their registration cards so I would know their names. Each registration card showed one daughter and one mother per room (and this was written at check-in in each mother’s handwriting). I decided not to address the discrepancy.
“I mean, do you even clean in here?” Never Complains demanded. I turned back to her and the toxic bathroom. “It’s just filthy! That bathmat is disgusting. I can hardly breathe because of the musty smell! I feel like I might get sick.”
“Or our daughters,” The Nurse added.
“You should really keep this place cleaner,” Never Complains continued. “I have stayed in some of the best hotels in the world: the Ritz Carlton, Sheraton, The GRAND – this was supposed to be on of the best, too, and I hate to say it, but I would give this hotel a 6. Maybe.”
“I am very sorry.”
“I don’t mean to complain, but we were really expecting something different here. Something MUCH nicer. This place is FILTHY. You are breaking so many health code violations in here. And the price is outRAGEOUS for how dirty it is. I mean, you have really done an awful job in here.”
By this point I was a bit tired of the “you” accusations. “Ma’am, I am really sorry that you two are so unhappy, but I am not housekeeping. I work the front desk. I have nothing to do with how the rooms are cleaned.”
“I know, I know. I’m not blaming you. It’s just, we were expecting something SO much better.”
“And the air conditioning,” The Nurse suddenly chimed.
“Yeah, we were not told that this room did not have air conditioning.” There was new vehemence to Never Complains’s voice.
“No?” I said, knowing full well we do not tell people which rooms have AC and which do not unless they ask. We’re not trying to hide anything, but there’s only so much you can describe to people while trying to sell a room and you don’t want to overload them.
“Yeah,” Never Complains continued, “if we had known there wouldn’t be air conditioning then we wouldn’t have come.”
“I’m really sorry. Normally we tell people if they ask.” Small white lie...
“Who would’ve thought you WOULDN’T have air conditioning?!”
“It is upper Michigan. We don’t need it much, especially at night.”
“Well you should make it more clear when you book a room. The heat is really unbearable. The person who booked our reservation told us nothing about there not being AC.”
“Do you want me to show you those rooms now?”
“Do they have AC?”
“Only one of them does. It’s one on the first floor and has two queen beds.”
Never Complains and The Nurse looked at each other. “It wouldn’t hurt to look,” The Nurse suggested.
I took them down to the first floor. Never Complains continued to talk of the stifling heat and mentioned that this was even more of a discomfort to her because she was currently going through menopause. It took every bit of self-restraint I had not to turn around and say, “Shocker.” I showed the ladies Room 109, which has two queen beds like Rooms 320 and 319, but also the added perks of AC and a balcony. The moment the women walked into the room they began oo-ing and awing over how much nicer the room was compared to their own.
“Look at this bathroom!” The Nurse exclaimed. “It’s so much cleaner than the one in our room.”
“It’s so much bigger, too!” Never Complains said. She turned to me. “And this room has AC?” I pointed to the AC unit near the ceiling. “Is it on?”
“No. We leave them off when the room’s unoccupied to conserve energy.”
“How do you turn it on?”
I pushed the button of the wall-mounted remote next to her head. Instantly, the unit started up. “Ugh, feel that air,” Never Complains moaned, opening her arms.
“This room is a lot cleaner than ours,” The Nurse stated.
“How much is it?” Never Complains asked.
“$490 per night.”
“What?! That’s so much more expensive than our room!”
“I believe you’re paying $435.”
“Why is it so much more?” The Nurse asked.
“The balcony,” I said, pointing across the room.
“And I bet that doesn’t include tax, right?” Never Complains asked, taking another jaunt into the enormous immaculate bathroom.
“It’s an extra 16% taxes and fees.”
“Oh my god! That is ridiculous! You Mackinac people charge exorbitant prices! Other people can’t afford that kind of stuff. How can you people charge so much?!”
It was now 9:55pm. I was tired, ready to go home, and ready for Never Complains to stop using “you” all the time. “I’m not from Mackinac,” I said, “I’m from Georgia. This is just a summer thing.”
“I know, sweetie, I know. I’m not blaming you. It’s just ridiculous. We come here for a nice girls weekend and it’s just become such a mess.”
“This room is a lot nicer than ours,” The Nurse repeated. “Do you have two of these available?”
“This is our only one.”
“So we’d ALL have to sleep in here?” Never Complains said, terror in her voice.
“We can bring a rollaway in here so that way it’s three beds. This room can accomodate up to five people.”
“Well then we better get something for this.” I looked at Never Complains quizically. “You’re not expecting us to move from our two rooms into this one and not be compensated for it, are you?”
“Unfortunately that’s not something I can authorize,” I replied. I could see where she was coming from, but there was absolutely nothing I could do except move them and make them happy right then and there. “I can talk it over with my manager and see what she says, but I can’t predict what she might say. I can tell you that they really want to keep guests happy.” (That was my professional way of saying, “You’ll probably get something out of this, but I can't fathom what.”)
“So you want us to move from our two rooms to this one, which is more expensive, without any sort of guarantee that we won’t have to pay the difference?”
“I really wish I could, but I just don’t have the authority to do that. All I can do is move you and talk about it with my manager. Like I said, though, they like to keep their guests happy.”
“But you can’t guarantee what they’ll do for us.”
“No because I would hate to tell you one thing and then have the manager say something totally different. I can move you now if you’d like or you can wait until the morning when the owner gets in and talk to her about it.”
The Nurse and Never Complains looked at each other. “Let’s go upstairs and talk it over with the girls,” The Nurse suggested. They left, saying they would call the front desk when they had made their decision.
I came back to the front desk just as Mickey returned from his break. I updated him on what was going on, which seemed to take an age as the phones continued to ring off the hook and guests kept coming to the desk with random requests/questions. As I finished telling Mickey about the possible room move for 319 and 320, the caller ID displayed that 320 was calling.
“Hi, Georgia.” It was the exasperated voice of Never Complains. “We’re still very torn about the situation. We just feel that this room is very unsafe and I feel as though if I stay in here any longer I may have to use my EpiPen on myself. (To this I wanted to scoff, “Of course you have an EpiPen! How could I not see that coming?”) Are you sure there are no other rooms available?”
“There is another deluxe waterfront room with a single king bed I could show you," I said. I hadn't shown it before because it only had the one bed. "It has air conditioning,” I added, knowing what was really important to these ladies. They discussed the extra room and then asked that I show it to them. Before I hung-up, they asked for four bed sheets to cover the chairs in their room because they were deemed too moldy and “unhealthy.”
Personally, the room we had open, Room 217, is my least favourite room in the hotel. I find it to be the only room with dull colours and it has a slightly obstructed view overlooking the lake. However, the moment Never Complains and The Nurse saw the AC unit they began oo-ing and awing over the cleanliness of the room and the enormity of the bathroom.
“Two of you could move into this room and two into the one on the first floor,” I explained. “They’re not next to each other like your rooms now, but they’re the only two we have left with air conditioning and this way you wouldn’t all have to go into one room.”
“Being next to each other was kind of the point,” The Nurse said, looking at Never Complains. “This was supposed to be a girls weekend and it’s nice to be right next to each other.”
“I don’t want to be so separated,” Never Complains added. “And you don’t have any suites?”
“No. Just that Sunset one.” I could tell that the true concern was being separated by an entire floor from their daughters. “It is a very safe hotel," I assured them. "We have nighttime security and since it’s a small hotel we recognize who is a guest and who is not.”
Never Complains raised her eyebrows at me. “I question the security of a hotel that lets a 10 year old and a 14 year old stay in the same room together. That’s not even legal.”
“That’s not what your registration cards say, which you filled out at check-in.” I replied, a little fed up with Never Complains's attitude. “I wasn’t going to mention that to my manager given the circumstance.”
Never Complains made no reply. She turned to The Nurse. “What do you want to do?” she asked.
“I really hate for us to be separated.”
“True. I just don’t know if I can stay in that room.”
“Maybe we should talk it over with the girls.”
“Is there a bellman to help us with our luggage?” Never Complains asked.
“Our porter has already gone home,” I replied, “but Mickey and I can certainly help you move your luggage. You would just need to make the decision while we’re both still here because we cannot leave the desk unattended.”
“Oh,” The Nurse said, “what time are you here until?”
“10.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s 10:15.”
“Yep.”
“We’ll go upstairs and let you know in 10 minutes,” Never Complains said, walking out the door.
Back at the front desk, Mickey and I continued to deal with difficult guests, namely people who would order room service and then suddenly disappear. Finally, Never Complains and The Nurse graced us with a phone call. Surprise, surprise – they decided to go for the two air conditioned rooms. Mickey ran up to help the Problem Sisters with their luggage, while I dealt with the overly complicated paperwork that comes with room moves at The Orchid. Poor Mickey looked almost comically small under the massive bags of Never Complains (who was obviously moving to the room with the balcony and two queen beds). I finally clocked out at 10:47 p.m...
Last week, Mickey, our one and only male desk clerk, was working the midnight shift, while I did the 10pm shift. The midnight person always gets a half hour break and Mickey (who is a wonderful person for volunteering to take ALL of the midnight shifts) typically takes this sometime between 9 and 10pm because things have supposedly slowed down by then. At 9:30 Mickey went on his break and I started working on the guest list for the next day. The door shut behind Mickey and the phone rang. It was the guest in room 320.
“Georgia,” she said, “I am not one to complain, but I...well I just gotta say that I am disgusted. DI-sgusted with our room.”
“Oh?” This is something I certainly never expected to hear from a guest given the insane attention to cleanliness the owner and housekeeping puts into the hotel.
“Yes. Our bathroom is filthy. FILTHY. It smells musty, it’s hot and muggy, there is mold in the tiles. I mean, I don’t mean to complain, but we are just disgusted. DI-sgusted. I mean, I was a travel agent and I would never recommend someone to come here. We are just disgusted!”
“I am so sorry, ma’am.”
“I mean, I have stayed in some of the best hotels and this one...well this is just not good. It’s filthy! We’re just...we’re disgusted, Georgia.”
At this point I want to just say, “Yeah, I get it. DI-sgusted.”
“We were wondering,” Never Complains began (I already knew what was coming by the tone of her voice), “if you might have any suites available for a complimentary upgrade because we just feel that we cannot stay in this room any longer. I mean, we have children! This is unsanitary.”
I pulled up the room list on the computer. Never Complains was traveling with the guests in 319. They would need a room that could accommodate all four people. Unfortunately for them, they were staying for two more nights, which greatly limited what might be available.
“Well, ma’am,” I said, “it looks like the only suite we have available for the next two nights is our Sunset Suite, but it only has a king bed so it could not accommodate all four of you.”
“What’s that suite like?”
“It has a king bed, a sitting area and a fourteen-window panoramic view overlooking the lake.”
“It just has the one bed?”
“Yes.”
“Well that wouldn’t fit all four of us,” she snapped.
“Yes, ma’am. I know.”
“Well, Georgia, we are just disgusted by our room. I mean, we’re paying nearly $500 a night and it's hot. You're using plastic shower liners which is a breeding ground for germs and the rubber bathmats are - we just can't use them. They are a complete health code violation. We are just disgusted. DI –”
“Ma’am, I’m going to give my manager a call and see what we can do about this and then I’ll call you back. Okay?”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
I hung up and called our night manger, Paul. Paul told me what I already knew – all we can do is move the guests to other rooms with two queen beds. Basically, rooms exactly like their current ones. I called 320 and explained the situation. “I could show you some of the rooms we have available if you would like,” I offered. I heard Never Complains whisper to who I presumed was the mother in 319 (the two rooms were mother and daughter pairs), “They don’t have any suites.” I waited while they continued to talk in hushed tones. Finally I repeated myself, “I could show you some of the rooms we have available.”
“Are they nice rooms?” Never Complains asked. “Are the bathrooms better than this one? I mean, this one is just filthy and disgusting! We cannot stay in here.”
“How about I come up and show you some of the rooms?”
“I don’t know if it would be worth it,” Never Complains said to 319. “Where are they?” she said back into the phone.
“Well, two of them are right next to you.”
“I just don’t know. There’s no suite you can upgrade us to?”
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry. There’s just that Sunset Suite that cannot accommodate all of you.”
“Oh...well I guess we’ll look at some of the rooms then.”
I called Paul so he could watch the desk while I went up to deal with the Problem Sisters. Upon entering Room 320 I was immediately shown the bathroom. “I’m a nurse,” 319 immediately began (she was less boisterous than the woman who had called the front desk so I knew she wasn’t Never Complains), “and this whole place is really a health hazard.”
“Can’t you smell the must?” Never Complains asked. I sniffed and looked around blankly. “Well we opened the windows so that aired it out,” she explained.
“The plastic shower liner is really awful,” The Nurse said, bringing my attention back to the bio-hazard zone. “And rubber bath mats? That’s what traps in the smell and dirt and germs. I’m here with my daughter and I don’t find this safe for children.”
“I’m really sorry, ma’am.”
“Do you see the mold?”
I did not, but I suppose that wasn’t actually the point as The Nurse then directed my attention back to the bathmat instead. I looked around the room as Never Complains and The Nurse continued to talk about the plethora of health code violations within the bathroom. A curious thing stood out – both women were traveling with their young daughters (10 and 14), yet there was nothing to signify a teenager was sleeping in the room. Only items obviously belonging to the two women were strewn about the place. At The Orchid (and pretty much all hotels) there is a policy that anyone under 18 must be in a room with at least one adult. Before I had gone up to show the women the rooms, I had taken a look at their registration cards so I would know their names. Each registration card showed one daughter and one mother per room (and this was written at check-in in each mother’s handwriting). I decided not to address the discrepancy.
“I mean, do you even clean in here?” Never Complains demanded. I turned back to her and the toxic bathroom. “It’s just filthy! That bathmat is disgusting. I can hardly breathe because of the musty smell! I feel like I might get sick.”
“Or our daughters,” The Nurse added.
“You should really keep this place cleaner,” Never Complains continued. “I have stayed in some of the best hotels in the world: the Ritz Carlton, Sheraton, The GRAND – this was supposed to be on of the best, too, and I hate to say it, but I would give this hotel a 6. Maybe.”
“I am very sorry.”
“I don’t mean to complain, but we were really expecting something different here. Something MUCH nicer. This place is FILTHY. You are breaking so many health code violations in here. And the price is outRAGEOUS for how dirty it is. I mean, you have really done an awful job in here.”
By this point I was a bit tired of the “you” accusations. “Ma’am, I am really sorry that you two are so unhappy, but I am not housekeeping. I work the front desk. I have nothing to do with how the rooms are cleaned.”
“I know, I know. I’m not blaming you. It’s just, we were expecting something SO much better.”
“And the air conditioning,” The Nurse suddenly chimed.
“Yeah, we were not told that this room did not have air conditioning.” There was new vehemence to Never Complains’s voice.
“No?” I said, knowing full well we do not tell people which rooms have AC and which do not unless they ask. We’re not trying to hide anything, but there’s only so much you can describe to people while trying to sell a room and you don’t want to overload them.
“Yeah,” Never Complains continued, “if we had known there wouldn’t be air conditioning then we wouldn’t have come.”
“I’m really sorry. Normally we tell people if they ask.” Small white lie...
“Who would’ve thought you WOULDN’T have air conditioning?!”
“It is upper Michigan. We don’t need it much, especially at night.”
“Well you should make it more clear when you book a room. The heat is really unbearable. The person who booked our reservation told us nothing about there not being AC.”
“Do you want me to show you those rooms now?”
“Do they have AC?”
“Only one of them does. It’s one on the first floor and has two queen beds.”
Never Complains and The Nurse looked at each other. “It wouldn’t hurt to look,” The Nurse suggested.
I took them down to the first floor. Never Complains continued to talk of the stifling heat and mentioned that this was even more of a discomfort to her because she was currently going through menopause. It took every bit of self-restraint I had not to turn around and say, “Shocker.” I showed the ladies Room 109, which has two queen beds like Rooms 320 and 319, but also the added perks of AC and a balcony. The moment the women walked into the room they began oo-ing and awing over how much nicer the room was compared to their own.
“Look at this bathroom!” The Nurse exclaimed. “It’s so much cleaner than the one in our room.”
“It’s so much bigger, too!” Never Complains said. She turned to me. “And this room has AC?” I pointed to the AC unit near the ceiling. “Is it on?”
“No. We leave them off when the room’s unoccupied to conserve energy.”
“How do you turn it on?”
I pushed the button of the wall-mounted remote next to her head. Instantly, the unit started up. “Ugh, feel that air,” Never Complains moaned, opening her arms.
“This room is a lot cleaner than ours,” The Nurse stated.
“How much is it?” Never Complains asked.
“$490 per night.”
“What?! That’s so much more expensive than our room!”
“I believe you’re paying $435.”
“Why is it so much more?” The Nurse asked.
“The balcony,” I said, pointing across the room.
“And I bet that doesn’t include tax, right?” Never Complains asked, taking another jaunt into the enormous immaculate bathroom.
“It’s an extra 16% taxes and fees.”
“Oh my god! That is ridiculous! You Mackinac people charge exorbitant prices! Other people can’t afford that kind of stuff. How can you people charge so much?!”
It was now 9:55pm. I was tired, ready to go home, and ready for Never Complains to stop using “you” all the time. “I’m not from Mackinac,” I said, “I’m from Georgia. This is just a summer thing.”
“I know, sweetie, I know. I’m not blaming you. It’s just ridiculous. We come here for a nice girls weekend and it’s just become such a mess.”
“This room is a lot nicer than ours,” The Nurse repeated. “Do you have two of these available?”
“This is our only one.”
“So we’d ALL have to sleep in here?” Never Complains said, terror in her voice.
“We can bring a rollaway in here so that way it’s three beds. This room can accomodate up to five people.”
“Well then we better get something for this.” I looked at Never Complains quizically. “You’re not expecting us to move from our two rooms into this one and not be compensated for it, are you?”
“Unfortunately that’s not something I can authorize,” I replied. I could see where she was coming from, but there was absolutely nothing I could do except move them and make them happy right then and there. “I can talk it over with my manager and see what she says, but I can’t predict what she might say. I can tell you that they really want to keep guests happy.” (That was my professional way of saying, “You’ll probably get something out of this, but I can't fathom what.”)
“So you want us to move from our two rooms to this one, which is more expensive, without any sort of guarantee that we won’t have to pay the difference?”
“I really wish I could, but I just don’t have the authority to do that. All I can do is move you and talk about it with my manager. Like I said, though, they like to keep their guests happy.”
“But you can’t guarantee what they’ll do for us.”
“No because I would hate to tell you one thing and then have the manager say something totally different. I can move you now if you’d like or you can wait until the morning when the owner gets in and talk to her about it.”
The Nurse and Never Complains looked at each other. “Let’s go upstairs and talk it over with the girls,” The Nurse suggested. They left, saying they would call the front desk when they had made their decision.
I came back to the front desk just as Mickey returned from his break. I updated him on what was going on, which seemed to take an age as the phones continued to ring off the hook and guests kept coming to the desk with random requests/questions. As I finished telling Mickey about the possible room move for 319 and 320, the caller ID displayed that 320 was calling.
“Hi, Georgia.” It was the exasperated voice of Never Complains. “We’re still very torn about the situation. We just feel that this room is very unsafe and I feel as though if I stay in here any longer I may have to use my EpiPen on myself. (To this I wanted to scoff, “Of course you have an EpiPen! How could I not see that coming?”) Are you sure there are no other rooms available?”
“There is another deluxe waterfront room with a single king bed I could show you," I said. I hadn't shown it before because it only had the one bed. "It has air conditioning,” I added, knowing what was really important to these ladies. They discussed the extra room and then asked that I show it to them. Before I hung-up, they asked for four bed sheets to cover the chairs in their room because they were deemed too moldy and “unhealthy.”
Personally, the room we had open, Room 217, is my least favourite room in the hotel. I find it to be the only room with dull colours and it has a slightly obstructed view overlooking the lake. However, the moment Never Complains and The Nurse saw the AC unit they began oo-ing and awing over the cleanliness of the room and the enormity of the bathroom.
“Two of you could move into this room and two into the one on the first floor,” I explained. “They’re not next to each other like your rooms now, but they’re the only two we have left with air conditioning and this way you wouldn’t all have to go into one room.”
“Being next to each other was kind of the point,” The Nurse said, looking at Never Complains. “This was supposed to be a girls weekend and it’s nice to be right next to each other.”
“I don’t want to be so separated,” Never Complains added. “And you don’t have any suites?”
“No. Just that Sunset one.” I could tell that the true concern was being separated by an entire floor from their daughters. “It is a very safe hotel," I assured them. "We have nighttime security and since it’s a small hotel we recognize who is a guest and who is not.”
Never Complains raised her eyebrows at me. “I question the security of a hotel that lets a 10 year old and a 14 year old stay in the same room together. That’s not even legal.”
“That’s not what your registration cards say, which you filled out at check-in.” I replied, a little fed up with Never Complains's attitude. “I wasn’t going to mention that to my manager given the circumstance.”
Never Complains made no reply. She turned to The Nurse. “What do you want to do?” she asked.
“I really hate for us to be separated.”
“True. I just don’t know if I can stay in that room.”
“Maybe we should talk it over with the girls.”
“Is there a bellman to help us with our luggage?” Never Complains asked.
“Our porter has already gone home,” I replied, “but Mickey and I can certainly help you move your luggage. You would just need to make the decision while we’re both still here because we cannot leave the desk unattended.”
“Oh,” The Nurse said, “what time are you here until?”
“10.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s 10:15.”
“Yep.”
“We’ll go upstairs and let you know in 10 minutes,” Never Complains said, walking out the door.
Back at the front desk, Mickey and I continued to deal with difficult guests, namely people who would order room service and then suddenly disappear. Finally, Never Complains and The Nurse graced us with a phone call. Surprise, surprise – they decided to go for the two air conditioned rooms. Mickey ran up to help the Problem Sisters with their luggage, while I dealt with the overly complicated paperwork that comes with room moves at The Orchid. Poor Mickey looked almost comically small under the massive bags of Never Complains (who was obviously moving to the room with the balcony and two queen beds). I finally clocked out at 10:47 p.m...
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Creeper
A lot of couples stay at The Orchid for their honeymoons, weddings, and anniversaries. Last week, a family was traveling around as some sort of big roadtrip for the parents' anniversary. The kids were grown and in their 40s and had apparently been going all out to make this trip as spectacular as possible for their parents. The mother told me how, at every rest stop, anytime she and her husband would both leave the car, when they returned there would be presents on their seats. What nice kids!
Upon hearing this, I was not surprised when the son came to the front desk one night and asked if I could leave a special present in his parents' room after turn-down service. Of course I agreed and the man lifted up a sack of gifts. Inside was a photo album, decorative plates for the album, sparkling grape juice, champagne flutes, napkins, and a tube of red cloth. He laid all the items out and asked if I could spread the gifts over two nights -- photo album stuff one night and sparkling grape juice and flutes the next night. Then he opened the tube of what was not red cloth, but rose petals. I was to sprinkle these on the bed each night, too.
Now, I will agree that this is a very sweet idea. Roses always bring a nice romantic touch to any occasion whether it's the whole flower or just the petals. However, the thought of sprinkling rose petals on my parents' bed would THOROUGHLY creep me out and having to sprinkle them on someone else's parents' bed...well that could just get a bit awkward.
However, I was more than happy to oblige this man. That night I went up to the room and neatly laid out the photo album and decorative inserts. I was a bit nervous because I kept thinking, "What if the parents come in and I'm just standing in their room?? I'm going to look like such a creeper!" Then, to raise my blood pressure even more, it was time to sprinkle the petals. I grabbed a handful and threw them onto the bed. Just my luck, the stupid things landed in a clump so I had to, instead, place each one individually. And then someone knocked on the door.
Without moving I said, "Come in?" I could have not looked more awkward being bent far over the bed, hand in mid-petal placement. Thankfully, Susie, a housekeeper, opened the door. She stared at me. "I know this looks super creepy," I said, "but I swear I was asked to do this." Susie gave me one of those, "You're driving me to drink" faces. She continued to look from me to the petals on the bed until I finally said, "Their son asked me to!" Susie pursed her lips, raised, an eyebrow and said, "Mmhm," before closing the door. The next night I placed the grape juice bottle and glasses on the bed, scattered the clump of petals across the bed and ran.
Upon hearing this, I was not surprised when the son came to the front desk one night and asked if I could leave a special present in his parents' room after turn-down service. Of course I agreed and the man lifted up a sack of gifts. Inside was a photo album, decorative plates for the album, sparkling grape juice, champagne flutes, napkins, and a tube of red cloth. He laid all the items out and asked if I could spread the gifts over two nights -- photo album stuff one night and sparkling grape juice and flutes the next night. Then he opened the tube of what was not red cloth, but rose petals. I was to sprinkle these on the bed each night, too.
Now, I will agree that this is a very sweet idea. Roses always bring a nice romantic touch to any occasion whether it's the whole flower or just the petals. However, the thought of sprinkling rose petals on my parents' bed would THOROUGHLY creep me out and having to sprinkle them on someone else's parents' bed...well that could just get a bit awkward.
However, I was more than happy to oblige this man. That night I went up to the room and neatly laid out the photo album and decorative inserts. I was a bit nervous because I kept thinking, "What if the parents come in and I'm just standing in their room?? I'm going to look like such a creeper!" Then, to raise my blood pressure even more, it was time to sprinkle the petals. I grabbed a handful and threw them onto the bed. Just my luck, the stupid things landed in a clump so I had to, instead, place each one individually. And then someone knocked on the door.
Without moving I said, "Come in?" I could have not looked more awkward being bent far over the bed, hand in mid-petal placement. Thankfully, Susie, a housekeeper, opened the door. She stared at me. "I know this looks super creepy," I said, "but I swear I was asked to do this." Susie gave me one of those, "You're driving me to drink" faces. She continued to look from me to the petals on the bed until I finally said, "Their son asked me to!" Susie pursed her lips, raised, an eyebrow and said, "Mmhm," before closing the door. The next night I placed the grape juice bottle and glasses on the bed, scattered the clump of petals across the bed and ran.
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