THE HOTEL ROBE HAS ALTERED MY PERSONALITY

Hey, shugs. Here’s some more shit from my handbag of unnecessary knowledge that may improve your next hotel stay.

Put on the robe.

That’s it. That’s where the trouble begins.

I checked into a perfectly respectable hotel last Tuesday. Neutral carpet. Business travelers. A painting of a tree that appeared to be withholding information.

I arrived tired, slightly hungry, and carrying a granola bar that had been traveling with me long enough to qualify for its own loyalty points.

Then I put on the robe.

Within seven minutes, I had become the sort of woman who expects someone to bring a silver lid into the room and lift it.

I ordered a cheese plate from a restaurant I had just walked past downstairs.

“Local honey, if you have it.”

Apparently, that was essential. Twenty minutes earlier, I had been considering eating crackers over the bathroom sink. Now I required regional provenance.

The robe had taken command.

I stood at the window, arms folded, surveying the parking lot with the quiet authority of a widow whose late husband owned shipping interests.

The Honda Civic. The decorative shrubbery. The man wrestling a suitcase out of his trunk.

A modest estate, but mine to oversee until eleven.

Something happens when you put on a hotel robe. Your vocabulary changes. Your posture improves. You begin saying “Have that sent up” about things you are perfectly capable of collecting.

At home, I check delivery fees.

In the robe, I ask whether breakfast can arrive at a specific time.

I have become a logistical burden in waffle weave.

Naturally, I inspected the room.

There were four throw pillows on the bed. I moved three of them, reconsidered the fourth, and stood back as though the hotel had retained me to resolve a difficult design problem.

Then I tested every lamp.

Hotels insist on wiring a room like an escape challenge. One switch operates the hallway. Another illuminates a narrow strip behind the headboard. The bedside lamp apparently requires a blood relative to authorize it.

By the time I established adequate lighting, I felt entitled to a consulting fee.

I found the tiny pen and notepad and wrote “spa?”

No appointment. No research. Just the word and a question mark.

I liked seeing it there. It suggested a woman with an afternoon to allocate.

Then I opened the minibar.

Carefully.

Some of those little bastards have sensors, and I refuse to spend the evening disputing a cashew incident.

I admired the inventory from a financially responsible distance. Nine-dollar nuts. A small bottle of champagne priced as though it had traveled here in its own seat.

I closed the door.

Even royalty has a purchasing policy.

Instead, I went downstairs for a proper drink and carried it back myself. A brief lapse in service, but I handled it beautifully.

Back in the room, I settled into the armchair and let the ice clink against the glass.

There is a particular pleasure in having nowhere to be for the next hour. Nobody needs an answer. Nothing requires loading into a dishwasher. The room is already clean, and whatever is happening at home can continue happening without my supervision.

I turned my phone facedown.

Then I used the lotion.

All of it was sitting there in those little bottles, smelling of white tea and a household with reliable staff. I applied it with the confidence of someone who had never once bought moisturizer because it was on clearance.

I wrapped my hair in a towel. My hair was dry. The towel completed the administration.

By eight, I had adjusted the thermostat, arranged my drink, and developed strong opinions about the bedside lighting.

This is how they get you.

The hotel provides a robe, a decent glass, and someone who answers the telephone with “How may I assist you?” Suddenly, you’re wondering whether you’ve been accepting entirely too much inconvenience elsewhere.

I called for an extra towel.

It arrived.

No discussion. No searching a cupboard. No explanation of why the towels were still in the dryer.

A knock. A towel. A pleasant evening.

Civilization, shugs. I recognized it immediately.

Of course, the following morning brought an unpleasant development.

Checkout.

Eleven o’clock is a vulgar hour to lose an estate.

I looked around at everything I had accomplished. The pillows were finally correct. I understood most of the switches. The chair and I had established an excellent working relationship.

And now I was expected to leave.

I requested late checkout.

Politely. I may have acquired a title overnight, but the woman at reception did not personally invent the departure policy.

She gave me another hour.

An hour. Do you understand what that means to a woman already wearing the robe?

I ordered coffee and resumed ownership of the parking lot.

Eventually, I packed. I checked the outlets, retrieved my charger, and located the granola bar, which had survived another engagement without being called into service.

The robe went back on its hook.

Read the little card before getting attached, by the way. “Available for purchase” means exactly that. Concealing it beneath your laundry is an expensive way to discover how closely housekeeping counts.

I left it there.

But I did take a few notes for my next stay: allow time to enjoy the room, check the service hours, ask about late checkout before the last minute, and stop filling every available hour with an obligation.

If I’m paying to stay somewhere, I intend to spend at least part of the visit actually staying there.

The Proper Pour: The Late Checkout

For this particular personality adjustment, I’m making The Late Checkout: bourbon, amaretto, bitters, and an orange twist.

A drink suited to the armchair after dinner, when the suitcase is still closed and tomorrow remains somebody else’s scheduling problem.

Ingredients

• 1½ ounces bourbon
• ½ ounce amaretto
• 2 dashes Angostura bitters
• 1 large ice cube
• Orange peel, for garnish

Method

Stir the bourbon, amaretto, and bitters with ice until chilled. Strain into a rocks glass over one large ice cube. Twist the orange peel over the drink to release its oils, then drop it in.

Settle into your chair.

I’ll be by the window. There’s a delivery van approaching my estate.

Stay cool, stay classy and go fuck some shit up today in a good way!

— P.S.C.