You live, you learn.
And I hope I live long enough to learn how to properly manage a hotel butler.
I’ll get to that in a minute.
First, the place where we usually stayed in Mexico City sucked.
There’s really no other way to put it.
It was undergoing extensive renovations, and the portion of the hotel that remained open had gone to shit.
Why bother keeping up the place if it’s all going to get ripped out and replaced?
I get that.
But it didn’t excuse the used Kleenexes my boss found on his bathroom floor.
I mean, come on, guys. Let’s make a little effort here.
The only reason we bothered with the place was because it was right around the corner from the U.S. Embassy in what was considered a safe part of town.
And, in the not-so-distant past, it had had a reputation of being a pretty swanky place.
That was probably why it had been recommended to us.
But the Kleenexes were the last straw.
“That’s it!” the boss had said. “I am not staying here anymore.”
So, it fell to his executive assistant to find us a new place for our next trip.
The CFO and I were hanging out at her desk.
“This looks nice,” she said, looking at her computer. “How about the St. Regis?”
I’d been to dinners at St. Regis hotels in a couple of cities, but I’d never stayed in one.
But, from what I’d seen, they did, in fact, appear quite nice.
“How much does it cost?” asked the CFO.
That’s what CFOs are supposed to ask.
“Let’s see . . .” the boss’s assistant responded. “Here,” she said, flipping around her monitor for the CFO to see.
“What!?” he exclaimed. “Nope. No way. We’re not paying that.”
Which was a bummer, but not unexpected.
“Hang on,” he said after a minute. “Was that in dollars or pesos.”
It was pesos.
He pulled out his phone, looked up the exchange rate, and did a quick conversion calculation.
“Oh,” he said upon seeing the number. “That isn’t that bad.”
It wasn’t cheap, but it wasn’t exorbitant, either.
“Let’s do it,” the CFO decided.
A few minutes later, everything was set.
We were staying at the St. Regis.
A couple weeks later, the driver delivered me to the hotel entrance, facing the famous “Diana the Huntress” fountain at Paseo de la Forma.
A porter greeted me the moment I opened my door.
He wore a Secret Service-style earpiece and a little microphone clipped to his lapel.
“Welcome to the St. Regis, senor” he said in accented English. “May I have your name, please?”
I gave it to him, which he then found on a neatly folded piece of paper he’d taken from jacket pocket.
“Ah, yes,” he said upon finding my name. “I see you’re with us for one night.”
That’s correct, I told him.
He then moved his lapel mic in the direction of his mouth and said, “Senor Bozung, llegando.”
It was like getting gonged on board a warship.
“Commander. Arriving.”
And I loved the way he pronounced my name.
In the U.S., most people pronounce it Boh-ZUNGH.
In Mexico, and most other places outside the States, people say Boo-ZOON.
Which I find amusing.
Hey, I’m the first to admit: It’s a weird frickin’ name.
The porter handed me off to a bellboy, who handed me off to the front desk attendant, who then handed me off to another bellboy.
At every step, and in encountering other random staff members, I received the same greeting,
“Buenos tardes, Senor Boo-zoon.”
It was a nice touch.
The bellboy led me through the lobby to the elevators.
The atmosphere was calming. Pleasing.
Soft jazz music played lightly in the background, and the entire place smelled like fresh-cut lilacs.
Various water features emitted the sounds of bubbling brooks.
Very feng shui.
It made you think, This must be how the Rockefellers did it.
I’m sure there’s an entire science behind hotel atmosphere-setting.
Which places like the St. Regis employ to great effect.
The bellboy made polite small talk during the elevator ride to the fourteenth floor, where he then deposited my bags just inside the door of my room.
Which was quite nice.
I immediately set out exploring to discover its various wonders.
Five minutes later, there was a knock at my door.
Probably another bellboy or assistant manager checking in to ensure I’d found the room satisfactory, I assumed.
What I found instead upon opening the door was a rather distinguished-looking gentlemen in white tie and tails—it was after six o’clock, after all—holding a silver tray with a glass of champagne.
Clipped to his lapel was a shiny brass nametag that read, “Andres.”
“Welcome to the St. Regis, Senor Boo-zoon,” he intoned, formally. “My name is Andres, and I will be your butler for the duration of your stay.”
My what?
Uh . . . okay, I stammered in response.
“May I come in?” he asked.
Sure, I said.
Upon stepping into the entryway, he extended the silver tray in my direction.
“A light refreshment,” he offered.
When I politely declined, explaining—apologizing—that I unfortunately couldn’t drink, Andres seemed disappointed.
Ever the professional, he quickly recovered.
“I certainly understand, sir,” he replied. “May I show you the features of your room?”
Again, I politely declined, because I was anxious to get settled in and on my way to dinner.
And, through my earlier exploration, I had already found a variety of goodies.
The terry cloth robe and slippers. The shoeshine kit and felt-lined bag for sending shoes out for a quick re-soling, if necessary. The espresso maker, identical to those found in the nicer European hotels. The fully stocked bar and neat jars of macadamia nuts. The sixty-dollars-a-bottle hand soap and lotion.
I felt like I knew my way around.
Which was again a disappointment to Andres.
“Very well, sir,” he said. “If you should need anything during your stay, simply press the button on the display above your nightstand, and I will be happy to assist you.”
I thanked Andres and sent him on his way, feeling as though I’d failed both of us.
Now, in my defense, I didn’t grow up in Downton Abbey.
I’ve never had a valet or a footman.
I don’t know what to do with such people.
I like to think I have good manners and a modicum of class.
But the whole point of good manners—and of being a gentleman—is to put people at ease.
I didn’t put Andres at ease.
In fact, I think I may have insulted him.
Later that night, my room phone rang.
It was Andres.
“May I bring you anything, sir? Perhaps a sparkling water or cup of tea?”
No, thank you, I told him. I’m quite fine.
And, again, he sounded dejected.
“Very well, sir. Please call if you need anything.”
I’m sorry I failed you, Andres.
I’ve never had a hotel butler.
Next time, I’ll do better.
I’ll bring shoes that need shining, clothes that need ironing, and a blazer specked with lint that you can brush clean for me.
I’ll have you fetch me extra towels that I have no intention of using.
I’ll complain about things that are wrong with my room, even though they aren’t.
And then I’ll expect you to apologize for them and get the hotel management involved to “fix” them.
I’ll say things like, “It’s disappointing to see how precipitously the standards have declined here.”
How will that be?
I’ll be fussy, high-maintenance, and a touch condescending.
Because I owe that to you.
And to your colleagues at the glorious, lilac-smelling St. Regis.
Yes, I’ll do better next time.
I promise.