“I’m Doctor Oppenheim….”
“Welcome to the Intercontinental, Doctor Oppenheim. Are
you checking in?”
Damn. Another employee who doesn’t recognize me. This
happens in hotels that have called for decades. Who knows what she’ll tell a
guest who asks for help?
I don’t market myself, but years ago I decided to hand a
copy of my latest book to general managers of my regular hotels and explain,
modestly, that writing allowed me free time to serve their guests. They listened
politely, made flattering comments, and went back to work. It was clear many
had no idea who I was. My tenth visit, to the downtown Hilton, was my last.
“What do you mean ‘serve our guests?’” snapped the GM. “We don’t have a hotel doctor. We don’t want a hotel doctor. You’re going to get a letter from our lawyer!” He snatched my book and marched off. I was a familiar figure to Hilton staff, having made over 100 visits, but I never made another.
“What do you mean ‘serve our guests?’” snapped the GM. “We don’t have a hotel doctor. We don’t want a hotel doctor. You’re going to get a letter from our lawyer!” He snatched my book and marched off. I was a familiar figure to Hilton staff, having made over 100 visits, but I never made another.
That was my first encounter with the epidemic of
suitophobia that rages among hotel managers, compelling them to forbid staff
from helping sick guests except by getting them off the premises. At any given
time, about ten percent are affected. Most recover after a few years, but in
the meantime both guests and hotel doctors suffer. I made over 600 visits to
the J.W. Marriott in Century City before calls abruptly stopped. I learned the
reason from concierges who swore me to secrecy when they snuck me in to see a
particularly demanding guest.