San Diego and Salt Lake, to be precise. I do mean to go off on rant here,
too. I want to share some life lessons that I've had re-enforced over the last
five days. Along the way, I've stayed in two 60% similar but 40% different hotels. How
can I come to such exact ratios? Because 60% of the time I was in either room,
all of my senses said they were identical: dark, cool and comfortable, letting
sleep like I haven't slept in a few months. For all practical purposes, it made
no difference if I was staying at San Diego's "W" Hotel or the Comfort Inn at
the Salt Lake City Airport. There was no quantitative or qualitative difference
between them.
Of course, there is one quantitative difference that I've not talked about
that really underscores why form doesn't exceed function. Despite the lower
perceived value of my "W experience," the daily room rate has four times --
that's right four times -- that of the Comfort Inn. Of course, I understand that
the economics of Salt Lake and San Diego are different. Based on the latest
available data, the cost of living in San Diego is 64% higher than the cost of
living in Salt Lake.
San Diego
I'd like to report that the 40% of time I spent at the "W" resulted in a
better experience from either point of view. I'd love to say that I was so taken
with the glitz and glamour of the "W" that I was able to overlook the arrogant
attitudes of their management staff. I'd really like the hipness of their lobby
lounge exceeded having to wait in line and show our room keys just to get past
the door man on the weekends. I'd relish saying that the food and wine in
the signature restaurant RICE was so excellent that that the measly portions
were acceptable. I'd especially love to say that the service was so attentive
that the staff knew and could anticipate my needs and actions.
Sadly, I can't say any of those things. All I can do is relate a horror
story. On our first night at the hotel, we decided to venture out on the town. I
was dressed very causal, of course, because I care more about comfort than
appearance. On returning to the hotel, we were greetings by a hipster donned in
a black suite, black shirt and ear-speaker. He had the look of the kind of
rugged cut, clothes horse "man of adventure at The Structure" you'd find back
pages of GQ, I suppose.
"Sir," he said with a dismissive and arrogant tone, "we have a dress
code."
I was take back a bit. I couldn't believe that anybody would address a
customer like that.
"We're guests."
"Oh." He seemed genuinely disappointed that he had to let us in, let alone
maybe open the door for us. "I'll have to see your room keys then."
We produced said keys and he glanced them over. In the most unwelcoming of
tones, he said, "Welcome to the W." as if he was greeting the guy that just ran
over his $5,000 pure-bred dog with my 1972 El Camino. He motioned for the door,
but I beat him to it.
"Never mind," I said, "I wouldn't want you to wrinkle your suit."
Contrast this with our experiences of checking in just a few hours earlier.
The lady that checked us was more pleasant than pretty, more professional than
fashionable. Even the Bell Crew was nicer. I asked where I might find a good
quantity of ice for the Styrofoam cooler and the small cache of California craft
brews we brought in.
But that's important to note: the knew that we we're bring said beverages in
and said absolutely nothing. All through the week, I kept the cooler filled with
ice and beer for whomever decided to stop by that night for conversations.
On Friday night, Michael and Laurie Earls, their friend Jan and I ventured
out to Junior Seau's steakhouse for dinner. That was great because I knew it was
close to BevMo. I felt bad because when Erik Porter visited, there was nothing
for him to drink since he didn't care much for beer. So, after dinner, we made
our way over to BevMo and bought some Peach Cider for him. Well, we ended up
waiting nearly 40 minutes for a cab back to the hotel.
On returning, the handsome Troll was waiting for us again. And the routine
repeated. Of course, this time it was different.
You see, The "W" San Diego isn't merely a Hotel. Oh no, someplace so hip, so
trendy, so popular couldn't be merely a Hotel. It's primary
purpose on Friday and Saturday nights is that of lounge lizard nirvana. There's
a queue to get in to the 15' by 25' lobby area.. There's a guest name list.
There's $10 martinis and $6 macro-brewed swill beers. Oh, and there is both
kinds of music: house and trance. Thankfully that's turned up loud enough
overwhelm all conversations about:
- The last episode of American Idol (sorry Marcie, but its true);
- Vladimir; about Candie's new "professional hair and color executive,"
- Courtney's spat with her boyfriend's spiritual advisor about Courtney's
modification of Hector's aura when she wears teal instead of indigo.
And so on. Yep, even the guests getting to bump and grind -- and naively
degrade the fashion level and probably ruin (along with everybody's Karma and
chances of getting laid) because we aren't wearing what debuted at Sak's last
Tuesday -- our way through the all the paper-doll thin (and just as uniform)
beautiful people, at least until we can get on the black-light and mirrored
chrome elevators.
Ah yes, the scene is definitely the scene. But there is a problem of course.
Its driven by the "were thing, we're pretty, we're the W so we can do whatever
we want" style of the house. Mind you, I don't care if the hotel has a great bar
or not. I do mind the fact that they make my experience as guest more difficult
than it has to be simply to rake in the bucks that such a thing offers. You're
simply saying that "its more important to us to appear to be cool than to take
good care of guests" with a system like this.
That's bad enough, but I understand. It's all about the Benjamins, of course
But what happened next is utterly unforgivable. Its the reason that I will never
choose to spend my money (which, by the way, isn't any less valuable than the
crowd the hotel is trying to impress merely with their coolness) with any
Starwood facility again if its possible. I'd ask you to the same.
At the door, the Troll greeted us not with a welcoming tone but with an
extremely combative one. "Sir," he said as though it were an insult to him, his
family and legions are Paul Mitchell patrons that had ever crossed his threshold
to have even speak to us, "we do not allow alcoholic beverages to be brought on
the premises."
"Oh really?"
"Yes Sir, it is Hotel Policy."
I see it so clearly now. All week, they've been setting me to hoist me on my
own petard. Never mind the fact that when I checked in a week ago, I clearly had
a cooler and beer. It was fine then and nobody said a word about. Never mind the
fact that my their staff had been in and out of my room all week to "style"
(their my-aren't-we-hip-and-clever code word for room service), obviously saw
the empties and took care of them without a note saying that it was
inappropriate. Not one word, not one vowel. Not even a disapproving look, like
the kind you get from your wife or girl-friend when you suggest that an evening
of XBox would be more enjoyable than going to see the latest Chick-Flick at the
local megaplex. Note that I'm blessed in that Janell would rather absolutely
kick my ass at NFL Fever 2004 than go to a Movie.
The Troll smugly confiscated our purchases and spirited them away. Of course,
we could have them back -- when we checked out. Obviously the implications of
this exceeded their analytic ability. When we checked out, we went home. On
airplanes. Where Federal Law prohibits bringing of such beverages on board as
luggage in almost any form. Worse yet, they were far more concerned about
forcing us into using their beverage service for our night cap. To be blunt, my
reaction as "oh, fuck that."
Nope, its that one magic word, "policy" that's supposed to make whatever the
house decides right.
At this point, was as angry enough that I could let it go. My normal calmness
was replaced with the defiance of "oh really." I carefully read the guest
book. No mention of such a policy, of course. So I called the house manager and,
as calmly and politely as I could muster, explained the situation and asked
about my recourse.
"Well, Sir, I'm sorry but it is house policy."
I explain that they had ample opportunity to advise of such policy and my
guest experience was less than satisfactory because they hadn't bother to
express said policy.
"Well, Sir, I'm sorry but it is house policy. We have this policy
because when we allow people (not guests) to bring beverages in, they become to
disruptive to other rooms (again, not guests)."
It immediately became clear when I expressed my frustration about the lack of
communication of the policy that she wasn't at all sorry about my
dissatisfaction. Not in the least. She was only sorry that she had to take my
call and that I didn't just "get over it." I really don't think she got it what
I wanted some sense of sorrow about -- my bad guest experience. My goal of
getting any commitment to advising guests about the policy was out the window.
Adam and Erik came by later. We had a great discussion, but once again, I
felt like a poor host to Erik. It wasn't that I did try to function better for
him, but the form got in the way.
Later in evening when a loud party was obviously going in the next room, I
though about calling the manager again. It would have been pointless. There was
probably no rule that prohibited loud music and louder talking about patrons who
got loaded down in lobby. That would have been function that interfered with the
illusion of form they wanted to generate.
I had defiled the Church of Form by committing the unforgivable sin of being
functional. And now was cast into my own pit of pure form hell. Surrounded by
nothing but form without any function. I closed my eyes decided to just go to
sleep, dreaming that the next night, all the Odells I could drink and my own bed
would be waiting.
I was a fool, of course. One night of penance was not enough. I had offended
the ghost of Gucci and Versace mightily, I guess.
After breakfast, I met a bellhop in the lift and he shortly appeared at my
door. I had a few beers left in the cooler and I suggested that he was welcome
to them and that he should share them with the other working stiffs. That was
such a totally different experience. He seems honestly thankful that some
appreciated his efforts. He was happy and so was I. Somebody there seemed to get
it. Finally. I hope he escapes the Church of Form before it totally corrupts
him.
Salt Lake City
Contrast this experience with the one had in Salt Lake City. Now maybe I was
too beaten down by my ordeals trying to get home to really care much, but I had
a totally different experience there. When Delta announced that we'd be held
over, I wasn't worried. At least I'd have a bed, shower and likely a decent
enough breakfast.
My expectations were exceeded. From the Shuttle Bus driver to the front desk
clerk, to the folks working in the restaurant the next morning, everybody seemed
totally focused on making us as comfortable and happy as possible. The shuttle
driver actually asked if there was anything he could do for us. The front-desk
clerk, who had been slammed with 30 room check-ins in the last 45 minutes. Every
one of us was greeted with a smile, a "its nice to have you with us" and an
amazingly swift room assignment. I asked for a 5:30 wake up call and a 6:30
shuttle to the Airport. Not only was that "no problem, sir," she let me know the
house restaurant was staying open "as long as it takes" for us.
The next morning came, the wake up call was on time, the shuttle ran on time
and everything was easy. No hassles, no attitude, just take care of the guest,
no matter what. That wasn't the only difference that counted either. My room in
Salt Lake was equipped with a fridge and microwave oven -- two such luxuries
that were no where to be seen in the "W" at all.
All of this is simple: when form is allowed to exceed function, a service
business like a hotel cannot hope to deliver anything than the illusion of
value.