I don’t know what it is about going away to a nice hotel that still excites me at my age, but it does. I recently went to Las Vegas and stayed at one of their swankiest hotels. I loved every minute of it.
We drove down the long driveway off the Vegas strip to the front of the hotel. As we arrived at the valet, the cutest young man rushed to the car and welcomed me to the “Blah Blah Hotel” like they couldn’t wait for me to get there. Maybe it’s the bellman uniform or the way he swung open my car door like the queen was about to exit, but somehow I immediately got caught up in the moment. I emerged from the vehicle with the grace of a 1940s movie goddess at a premiere. Then came a flurry of activity centered on “Madame’s luggage” (that’s me!). I stood there—rather diva-ish—while the back of the car was unloaded. When I saw my big suitcase come out, I sincerely wished I had made the extra effort of getting the tote bag that matches my luggage off the high shelf of my closet rather than using what was handy. I looked away as my bellman then pulled my grandson’s Spongebob Squarepants duffle out of the trunk.
I proceeded to the main lobby to check in. I wish the world still talked to you like they do at the front desk of nice hotels. They said my name over and over, prefaced by “Miss”, and made it sound nearly like music. I love that. They asked me all sorts of yummy questions about what my needs and choices might be during my stay. This is pretty fantastic stuff in a world where the only time anybody ever inquires as to what I prefer is in regard to what kind of dressing I would like on my salad or whether I would like paper or plastic at the market.
Next came the really thrilling part. My luggage and I were escorted to my room. Then came that moment when the bell guy puts the key in the door and I got to view my new surroundings for the first time. I don’t know what it is, but I always have childish anticipation.
My bellman left and finally I was alone. You’d think I grew up in a cave the way I take in every little feature of my hotel room with such amazement. The bed... how DO they get those sheets so white and wrinkle-less? Do they use a pump on the pillows? My pillows at home never had that much pouf.
Not everything at fancy hotels makes sense, however. The honor bar is completely confounding. Where do all those little teeny tiny bottles of liquor come from? Are they delivered in a little tiny truck, do you think? And who prices this stuff? Obviously, it’s someone who never goes to the grocery store. If I can get a 12 pack of Coke for three bucks, do they really think that I would ever be thirsty enough to pay $5 a can? This is all so curious when you can go into the bathroom and see all the fabulous things that they give you for free. Expensive shampoo and conditioner, body wash that smells like ginger, emery boards, sewing kits, and mouthwash to keep me minty fresh during my stay. Although I didn’t appreciate it at first, I do want to thank the hotel staff for always including a shoe shine cloth. My flip flops have never looked better.
When you stay at upscale hotels enough, you learn to ask for special things. After all, they want you back and they are there to please. I love getting up late and I learned this great trick from my rich girlfriend. She taught me to request an extended check out time for my last morning. I don’t set the alarm and the goal is to wake up when I wake up. I always feel so “VIP” when they grant me a longer time to sleep while the other poor fools are forced to check out at the posted time and stand in line. I just wish my rich friend had also taught me to ask the front desk to notify the maid about my plans to sleep in. I never remember until I am awakened from my beauty sleep by a loud KNOCK followed by someone yelling “HOUSEKEEPING!” only a few feet from my bed.
Staying in luxury hotels and seeing how the other half lives always makes me think of what it would be like to live like this all the time. I think I could get used to daily maid service, round-the-clock food being delivered, sumptuous surroundings, and a staff that treats me like the Queen of Sheba. But then I think... if I did this all the time, it wouldn’t be special anymore and that would be a shame.
Suddenly, I started to feel sorry for rich people. If you are so rich that you can have everything, what on earth can delight you? I doubt if it’s little shampoos or chocolates that are left on the pillow. How sad not to be able to appreciate the little things.
And how do the hotels meet the expectations of these people who have it all? Are their bathtubs filled with French champagne? Do acrobats from the Cirque de Soleil deliver their extra towels? What do they get?
I am glad that I still get excited over silly little things. It makes life so much more fun. If I were rich, I wouldn’t have gotten so excited over finding a $10 bill in my jeans when I was doing laundry the other day. OK, I suppose if I were rich, I wouldn’t be doing my own laundry.
I heard that Madonna (or some lady celebrity) requires someone to go ahead of her and drop rose petals before she enters a room. That’s very dramatic, but I wouldn’t trade it for the supermarket flowers (with the price sticker still on) that I sometimes get from people I love on the spur of the moment.
See what I am saying? You lose a lot when you have too much. Being jaded can’t be good. I think it is better to still love the little things in life. They thrill you each time they happen. These events never have to be topped or get bigger. It’s always good.
So write me and tell me about the small things that happen in your lives that give you joy over and over again. And, if you are crazy rich, tell me what the biggest and best thing that happened to you recently. Or if you prefer, instead of emailing me, you can hire a skywriter to fly over my office and let me know. Your choice, darling.
