Back in a previous life, when I used to virtually live in hotels – sometimes literally so – it became exceedingly apparent that these were strange little places. There were some omnipresent highlights; like meticulously clean bathrooms and that feeling of dropping onto a perfectly made bed for the first time. More often than not, though, hotels proved to be home to a maddening collection of offenses by both staff and fellow travelers alike. These are the worst of those transgressions.
The Eternal Check-In
When I made a reservation, I gave you my name, address, email, phone number, and all my credit card info. I presume that somewhere in the complex workings of innkeeping, you reserved a room in some fashion for me at that same time.
A handful of hotels seem to acknowledge this, and allow me to check in to their establishment with little more than a swipe of my credit card through a kiosk. At most of them, though, the process is more like this :
“Hi, I’m checking in. Last name is Tanktronic.”
“Ok, great, can I have an ID and form of payment?”
This is followed by my presenting of the requested items within five seconds…and a front desk associate frantically typing on their keyboard for twenty fucking minutes.
What are you typing back there? For what reason on God’s Green Earth do you need to type more than entering my name and pressing Enter? I’ve already given you every relevant piece of data about myself and my stay before I even got here, and you’re now back there transcribing War and Peace before giving me my damn key card.