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Showing posts with label Biltmore. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Biltmore. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 19, 2020

Why I Like Foreigners


“Do you take insurance?” asked a Biltmore guest after learning my fee. She was  an American.

Hearing that she would have to pay up front and submit my invoice, she decided to wait. She was suffering an upset stomach which would probably clear up in a day. I gave advice and told her to feel free to call.

“Could I have your name and room number?” I asked before hanging up.

“Is that so you can charge me?” she asked.

“Phone calls are free,” I said. “I just need to keep a record.”  

An hour later she called to say she had changed her mind. Could I come?

Her vomiting had stopped but not her nausea and headache. After an exam, I gave her two packets of pills: one for nausea, one for the headache.

“How much are these?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I assured her that she was over the worst of her stomach virus. 

“So it’s a minor problem that’s already going away. You came, but you didn’t do much for me.”

I agreed that I hadn’t cured her but perhaps I had helped in other ways. I could have mentioned the convenience of a housecall and the medicines I hand over, and my long drive to the hotel. None of this would have worked. I simply expressed satisfaction that she was improving and told her to phone if problems developed.

“And then you’ll come back and charge me again?” she asked.

I explained that I rarely make a second visit for the same problem, but I would try to help.

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

A Not-So-Easy Visit


A Biltmore guest with a sore foot had a meeting after breakfast. Could I come now?

I rise early, so the 5:50 a.m. call found me writing this blog. Reaching the Biltmore, ten miles distant downtown, is no problem if traffic is moving, but it wouldn’t be moving soon, and I hate driving during the rush hour.

I considered sending him to a nearby 24-hour clinic. But a sore foot was an easy visit (i.e. not serious and not a respiratory infection). If I hurried, I might escape gridlock, so I told him to expect me around 6:30. 

I left my car at the entrance and hurried to the room. As expected, it was an easy visit. Leaving the hotel, I saw that my car had vanished. Most Biltmore parking valets recognize me; this one hadn’t, so I had delivered my mantra (“I’m the hotel doctor. I’ll be here twenty minutes. They hold my car.”) He nodded and smiled and then proceeded to follow orders and drive my car deep into the building. Then he dropped my keys off at the parking kiosk whose attendant demanded the usual spectacular fee.

I returned to the lobby to track down a manager willing to overrule the attendant. Following this, I waited my turn for the valet to retrieve my car. Those delays pushed me past a critical point, morphing the half hour drive downtown into more than an hour to return.