On hotels (again)

My travel has reduced over the past few months considerably. From a different city every week, to now spending a couple of days in a month in a different city. Not that I am complaining about it – I have suddenly become fond of GHQ and the snug comfort in laziness. And the fact that first flight out on winter mornings isn't exactly the best form of treat.

So then I was in Le City of Joy last in the past week. The hotel that I usually stay in was not available and I told the office admin I would pull out of the travel if they didn't find a suitable replacement and the project/ client's wrath would be all theirs. It worked. They put me a hotel known for its luxe & grandeur. Aah well :)

But then, the deal is that, one is not really used to such kind of treatment. Every person – the bell boy, the chauffeur, the receptionist, the person 'who calls the lift' (yeah, imagine having that as a job - he just stands out there and keeps calling the lift down to the ground floor) – every person knew my name by memory. Me, being the private person, freaked out. Sure, most guests for such a hotel would appreciate being 'known'. And then again, surely, there are people like me who like being left alone – and value private moments (such as walking down the corridor, without getting called out from all directions by various staff who happen to know my name).

Case in point, the drop to the airport on my way back:

One person holds the hotel door to let me out. Another person puts my luggage into the bonnet of the car, yet another person swings the door of the car open for me (and gives me a wide toothy grin at 4.30 in the morning!!) and just when I get into the car, the driver (I see him for the first time now – and imagine – much like an arranged marriage situation no – where everyone else was dealing with me instead of the main person who would take me to the airport) gets into action. Literally. Below ensued:

Driver (has not yet started the car): Good morning Miss ____. I am your driver. If I have your permission, can we start our drive to the airport?

Me (super sleepy): Yes please.

Driver (still has not started the engine): I just wanted to remind you – I hope you have your ticket and passport?

Me (getting fidgety): Yes, I have all of it. Thank you.

Driver (not yet): Ok, today we will go to the domestic airport. The journey will take approximately 30 minutes.

Me (suppressing fidgetiness): Ok, thank you.

Driver (not yet): I hope you enjoy the ride

Me (boohoo): Yes, you can start please.

Driver (yay! Finally starts!): Ok ma'am.

We move from the porch to the main gate. We stop.

Driver: Also wanted to let you know – please be comfortable. In case you need anything, don't hesitate to let me know.

Me (mommee!!): Ok, I will do that.

We move finally. I drift away in my thoughts. I realise the car has stopped at a traffic light. The driver turns with a box in hand. I jump.

Driver: Madam, I have some refreshments if you want to sample any of these

Me (it is frikking 4.30 in the morning, you moron!!): Err... no, that's fine. I will ask if I need anything.

***

I guess it is all fine for a certain section of the society. Now usually the place where I stay is also a five star and all, but it is tad more nouveau riche. With all the strappings of the same. The staff thinks they have fallen from heaven and are snooty to the core. Even if I go there a dozen times each month, they will still not remember me.

But they are unfailing with their services. Just that it shows that they 'think' they are a posh five star hotel. And that they are doing you a favour by serving you well.

Somewhere, this time, I missed the comfort of their frigidity. Yeah well.

I guess, like them, I too am nouveau riche... rather, nouveau pretend riche, hence the comfort levels.

***

The other place, which I really really like is in another city. It is more of a serviced apartment, but with a difference. This is basically a century old Portuguese cottage that a French couple converted (and expanded, but keeping the essence of the original form) into a guest house of sorts. It actually looks like home – rather my home. Each room has a porch in front of it, complete with wooden benches and tables to while away time sighing at the nicely maintained gardens or watching the antics of one of the many cats that they have there.

This is preferred despite limitations of lack of LCD TV, marbled bathrooms with speakers in them, any service ordered takes about 20 – 30 minutes to get executed, meals have to be ordered a meal in advance, no swanky Toyota Corrolla to drop me off to the airport.

But they remember me and welcome me back like my own family would. Each time, the 'caretaker' asks me when I would return next – or if I return after a long gap, then where I had been all this while. The place is spanking clean – and of course the vintage feel is just so damn romantic no?

***

Aah well, so much for this journey then.