A Match Made in Hell

Dear “Boutique Luxury Hotel,”

I’m sorry but it’s just not going to work out between us.

When I first heard about you, I was excited at the potential. Your website promised me “saucy sophistication and insanely attentive service,” and when we first met I found you easy on the eyes with a kind and welcoming demeanor. But there are a few problems with our relationship that I think just aren’t going to improve.

I can forgive the fact that you have no store, no newspapers and no minibar. I was disappointed at the glaring omission of grilled cheese on the room service menu, or that your promise to “wrap yourself in a copious bathrobe” was a hollow one, there being no bathrobe, copious or otherwise, to be found. But my first sign that something was truly amiss was the plumbing system whose shrill screech drowns out the sound of the TV anytime anyone in a 6 mile radius decides to bathe.

I had been looking forward to partaking in your “famous” Sunday brunch, especially after your promise that I would “join the glitterati and discerning business professionals who have discovered L.A.’s most stylish new address.” If by glitterati you mean the lone old man sucking on a chicken bone in the corner of the dining room while I wait 12 minutes for a waiter, until low blood sugar and the ravenous cravings of five months of pregnancy compel me to leave and dine elsewhere, then perhaps the issue was merely one of my own overinflated expectations.

The sense that we’re not communicating well is a troubling problem in our new relationship.

Me: I left my ATM card at home. Is there any chance you can cash a check?

You: No.

Me: Oh. Are you certain? I’m a guest at the hotel for the week and I don’t…

You: No. We don’t do that.

Me: Thanks for your help.

But the final straw is the smell of raw, stinking, fetid sewage that’s permeated the hallways since my arrival, keeping me hostage in my room until I’m forced to emerge; at which point I have no choice but to to traipse down the rear stairwell, to avoid the long, gag reflex-inducing walk down the hallway towards the elevator.

Your daily explanation for said raw, stinking, fetid smell of sewage? “We’re looking into it.”

But last night, my decision to leave you was solidified by the small matter of the toast.

If a member of your housekeeping staff feels the need to smear a piece of toasted bread a half-inch thick with butter and enjoy it while she cleans my room, perhaps she’d do best not to eat half of it and THEN LEAVE THE FUCKING THING SITTING ON TOP OF MY NEW SKIRT.

Ew.

And so, we’re through. I’m done. I’m leaving you.

It’s not me, it’s you.

And don’t call me again.

Also? Here’s a link to your crappy hotel. Because I have a blog and I can do that kind of thing.

Yours,
A woman scorned

—-

Update: Upon checkout, a perfectly nice man subbing for the absent (surprise) manager agreed the toast incident was disgusting, comped two of my three days, and explained the hotel had switched owners the week before and was “ironing out some kinks.” I suggested they get a very, very large iron.

Anyone have a contact at Shutters for me?