As a former travel editor for Southern Living, I have been in more hotel rooms than the Gideon Bible. Check out some of my old stories at www.southernliving.com/travel/
As you might imagine, I’m pretty picky about hotels. So Catherine, our office manager, has to put up with my 20 questions about every hotel she suggests for the Great American Road Trip. We settled on the Onyx in Boston because it was a.) newly renovated, b.) had good parking and c.) came with a somewhat reasonable room rate of $169.
Looks can be deceiving, though. Though the Onyx didn’t quite hit all of my top 10 peeves, they came pretty close.
Cats. I am an animal lover. Really, I am. But cats have no place in a hotel, bed and breakfast, or motel. Nothing says “We hate our guests” like a hairball.
Taxes. How is it that a room rate can be $100, but the final bill is $129? Taxes, my friends. And why are hotel taxes so onerous? Because local governments know that if you’re staying in a hotel in their area, chances are you don’t vote there. So hotel stays get taxed with impunity. Welcome to town, sucker.
$6 Water. Whose idea was $6 water? A bottle of water should cost a buck, period. Maybe $2, if we count the labor it took to get the water up to the room. But $6? Ridiculous. What’s worse? The fact that the hotels that charge $6 for water don’t have the guts to put the price tag on the water. So when you need to swallow that allergy pill in the middle of the night and want to know how badly you’re going to get gouged on the Evian by the bedside, you have to get up, flip on a light, and leaf through a 70-page guest services directory.
Room Keys. I love a regular room key, brass, with teeth. Yet I have resigned myself to accept the little credit card doohickey. At Southern Living, I received a lot of tips from readers to “never, ever leave your card key in the room because a hotel employee could get all of your personal information off the data strip.” Right. That is true. Yet the hotel employees can also read all your personal information off the computer at the front desk with which they entered it onto the card in the first place. Plus the little cards fit in one’s pocket nicely. Hotels also love the cards because they’re cheap and a guest can go back to Topeka with one and there’s no real harm done. Still, some hotels cling to the ancient room key and are so terrified of you walking off with one that they attach a large keychain to it. Like a hall pass from junior high, these keychains are huge: wooden planks, brass sculpture, tires, and small animals. Somehow, I still manage to forget those, too.
Bedspreads. Polyester and bedding is a bad mix. Truly. When do you think the last time the average polyester bedspread got washed? Neveruary. Don’t look at the gauzy underside of the average hotel bedspread. Trust me. You’ll want to wrap yourself in aluminum foil and sleep in the bathtub. Who has the best hotel bedding? The Ritz Carlton has an awesome bed (which they sell) as does, surprise, every Hampton Inn (which has duvets that they wash after every visit). Now that’s value.
Washcloths. My friend Pamela mentioned to me on a recent trip that she never uses a hotel washcloth, “I know where those have been!” she said. I’d never thought of that. Now I’m ruined for life . . . and so are you.
Expensive Wireless. If I can get free WiFi at a Hampton Inn, why must I pay $20 a day for wireless at a Hyatt?
Window-unit AC. Window unit heat and air belongs in a motel shaped like a teepee, not in a “four star luxury” downtown hotel. Most of those units were built about the same time as my 1958 Cadillac and haven’t seen a can of Freon since.
Poor security. Clerks who shout your room number across the lobby, poorly-lit parking, locked fire escapes, and front doors that look like they belong and San Quentin? Makes me want to sleep with a sofa on the door.
Paper-thin walls. I don’t want to hear anything but my own snoring. Last night a couple argued until 2 a.m. Finally, the hotel manager arrived and said some guests had complained about bickering in the hallway. The couple piped down long enough for the manager to go back downstairs, then resumed their quarrel. Travel is stressful, folks, but hotels are for making up, not practicing your next appearance on the The Factor.
Checking out of the Onyx, the front checkout clerk asked, “How was your stay with us?” Atypically, I was honest. Usually I just say “Fine, thanks,” which can mean either “fine” or “horrible.” This time I said, “Not so hot, actually.” The clerk didn’t ask why, apologize, or offer to reduce my bill. She simply paused, handed me a $205 receipt, and asked if I’d valet-parked the car.