Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Hi, This Is Emily. Would You Like A Smaller Room?

Our first night in Chicago was spent listening to the party in the room next door. All. Night. Long. At 4:30 in the morning I had finally had enough and tried to call the front desk, but neither of the phones in our room were working. I threw on my sweater and ventured into the hall where (luckily) I found a phone on the wall and called downstairs. We heard security knock on their door, then the party continued. At 5 a.m. my husband called downstairs. Again. The guys in the room left shortly after.

"I really thought things would quiet down after the guys left," my husband said the next day.

"Are you kidding? They needed to TALK about the guys for an hour after they left," I said.

And they did. Loudly.

Before we left on our adventures that morning we told the front desk about our dismay with the neighbors and the phones ("The phones were probably just on Off," the guy at the desk told me. "That's really not helpful at 4:30 a.m.," I said). The Guy At The Desk was less then helpful. Our option was to leave all our luggage with the bellhop and they would try to find us a new room when someone checked out. So we packed up and headed out for the day. When we straggled back at 3 pm, too exhausted to continue sightseeing, we were sent up to a room that was significantly smaller than the one we had left. It felt like we were being punished for having loud neighbors. I went back down to explain our predicament and ask for a larger room, went back upstairs with two new keys and skipped into the room singing "Who's the best mom in the world?" We grabbed our luggage and headed up four floors to a room that was even. smaller. yet.

Now, we've done quite a bit of traveling this summer, a little more than our norm. Every other hotel we've stayed at has OUTDONE itself with hospitality. When we checked in in New York the young woman asked if we were celebrating anything then sent up champagne and chocolate strawberries for our Anniversary. When we arrived in Las Vegas our reserved room wasn't ready so the next day we were moved into a corner room that was so big our closet had its own room!!

But, apparently, in Chicago they don't feel the need to be hospitable. Or helpful. Or even sympathetic. Were we offered a complimentary breakfast for our suffering? Did they send up a bottle of wine to ease our frazzled nerves? No. In Chicago you're on your own. If the neighbors keep you up all night, too bad for you. You're not a guest, you're an inconvenience. I did call down and complain. And we switched rooms yet again. For those of you that are keeping track, that's 4.

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