Royal Roads, Frosty Sphincters, and a Hamster Hotel

After a harrowing floatplane ride in stormy weather comparable to the turbulence experienced by the hotel industry this year, I landed safely in Victoria harbour on Wednesday and proceeded to Royal Roads University, where I presented to a keen group of hotel management students on my seemingly divergent career paths as a hotel manager and mystery author.

On the surface my two professions couldn’t seem more different. Writing is a solitary endeavor that often leaves me thirsting for the company of non-fictional characters, whereas managing a hotel often leaves me craving solitude to think and reflect. What’s interesting to me is the areas of convergence. Both careers require creativity, attention to detail, and blind determination to achieve a vision despite the naysayers around me, the loudest and most obnoxious of whom resides in my head.

As a relatively new author, I’m often exasperated by my powerlessness in the publishing world, a contrast to the influence I occasionally wield as a seasoned hotel manager. Yet the people skills I’ve cultivated in the hotel industry have helped me overcome the introverted, semi-psychotic inclinations of a writer and have provided coping skills for the horrors of book signing events attended by only a handful of people, most of whom were expecting the “other” Daniel Craig.

Now that my writing sabbatical in Europe is over, I’m focusing on my consulting business, which draws on my experience as a writer and a hotelier to assist hotels and other tourism entities with social media strategy and online reputation management. This necessitates a great deal of time online keeping up on the latest trends and monitoring social networking activity. In the coming months I’ll be sharing some of my unique and amusing findings in this blog.

Here are a few of the latest:

Are Canadian Olympic Speed-skaters unfairly sharpening their competitive edge? On the heels of a New York Times article in which members of the American Olympic speed-skating team complained that Canada was bolstering its home-ice advantage by limiting access to venues for practice, recently Stephen Colbert of the Comedy Network called Canadians “syrup-sucking ice-holes” who should “unclench their frosty sphincters and let Americans onto their oval.” Far less amusing was American speedskater Catherine Raney’s remark that our behaviour was—gasp—”un-Canadian”.

The next trend in lifestyle hotels: living like a rodent. We normally consider vacations an opportunity to hop off the hamster wheel, but a new hotel in Nantes, France offers travelers an opportunity to jump back on. For 99 euros per night, guests of Villa Hamster can experience life as a hamster, complete with furry costumes, hamster food and a human-sized hamster wheel.

Design by Dior, accessories by Santa. Is luxury dead? Only for those who can’t afford it anymore. It’s business as usual at Claridge’s Hotel in London this Christmas, where the tradition of commissioning a well-known designer to decorate the tree continues with Dior creative director John Galliano. No word yet on whether it will be a fake, cut or live tree.

A modern-day Boston tea party. Kudos to Morgans Hotel Group for keeping hedonism alive in travel despite today’s tight-ass spending habits. The contemporary boutique pioneer marks the opening of its Ames Hotel in Boston with a Revel and Recoup package, which includes two house shots upon arrival and a signature “hair of the dog” cocktail and 2:00 PM checkout the following day.

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“A Hidden Gem!” or “Lame!!!”? Online Travel Reviewers to Watch Out For

In 2007, a traveler wrote the following review of Opus Hotel Vancouver on TripAdvisor: “The GM who thought he was Ian Fleming was a real detriment to a great trip. Shame – let’s hope the hotel sees sense and releases Daniel to make another movie.”

Ouch. The comment was a reference to my James Bond namesake and my secondary career as a mystery novelist, but nonetheless I was baffled by it, having no recollection of any guest encounter that would have provoked a public cry for my dismissal. Since the review was anonymous, we had no way of contacting the guest to find out what went wrong. Because it was a personal attack that offered little useful information, we asked TripAdvisor to remove it. But they refused, and it remains there today. Sometimes we hoteliers have to set aside our professionalism and say, “Whatever”.

In my last post I wrote about online travel reviews from a hotelier’s perspective. This time I take off my hotelier’s hat to poke some fun at online reviews from a traveler’s perspective.

When planning trips, I always check out amateur reviews for a refreshing, grassroots alternative to the salesy propaganda on hotel websites. Yet as these sites grow in popularity the process has become increasingly time-consuming and confusing. The playing field is now so cluttered, the reviews so contradictory and polarized, it’s hard to know who to believe anymore.

And whereas the vast majority of reviews are benevolent and seemingly authentic, a few reviewer types have emerged whose advice should be taken with a healthy dose of skepticism. In the spirit of parody, here are a few to watch out for.

The Self-Appointed Expert. This reviewer has posted scores of reviews, yet quite possibly has never left his computer room. An aspiring travel memoirist, he writes lengthy, flowery missives colored with acid-tongued remarks like, “To call this a fleabag hotel would be an insult to fleas and bags everywhere.” Although he positions himself as a martyr to the travel community, he wouldn’t object if a hotel offered him a free stay in exchange for a glowing review.

The Patron Saint of Hotels. This reviewer is so over-the-top in her praise either she’s never had a vacation before or she’s been into the sacred wine. She rates all services as excellent, including those the hotel doesn’t offer, and uses exalted phrases like “A hidden gem!”, “Glorious!” and “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven!” Because she insists on seeing the good in everyone, she often finds herself making excuses on behalf of a hotel, such as, “My niece fell down the elevator shaft, but I’m sure they’ve gotten that fixed.”

The Up-trader. Having scoured the internet for deals until he scored a five-star hotel at a two-star rate, this bargain-hunter now expects all other services to be equally discounted. He expresses moral outrage over charges for breakfast, telephone and the mini-bar, accusing the hotel of gouging. His comments are revealing: “$28 for parking!?! That’s how much I usually pay for a room! Rip OFF!”

The Down-trader. This high-flying business traveler used to spend lavishly on luxury hotels until the economic crisis forced a drastic reduction in her expense account. Now obliged to stay in budget properties, she lives in denial, complaining bitterly about the lack of a day spa, fur boutique and gourmet restaurant at her roadside motel.

The Uncle Bob. Like that dull relative who subjects you to endless vacation photos and anecdotes, this reviewer goes on and on but never manages to say anything helpful or interesting. “My room had a bed and a desk and a chair. Oh, and a painting of a landscape. Molly at the front desk—or was it Maggie? Well, whoever it was, gosh darn was she swell when we needed directions to the local IHOP…” Next.

The Extortionist. After a series of mishaps, all of which were his own fault, this traveler tried every trick in the book to weasel a comp stay from the hotel, and now resorts to posting a blistering online review. He rates everything as terrible, including things that were perfectly fine. His reviews read like ransom notes, with bad spelling and grammar, excess punctuation, and random capital letters: “This hOtel SUKCED!! RobeRto the Duty manger?%? was LaiMe…!!!!!”

The Shill. This reviewer writes in a style that sounds suspiciously like the hotel’s promo material, with phrases only marketing people use, like “nestled in the heart of vibrant old-town” and “well-appointed furnishings with dreamy Celestial Comfort™ beds”. Her review contrasts sharply with the other, not-so-generous reviews and is typically a one-off. Although she signs off with a cutesy pseudonym like “TravlinGrrrl”, she’s undoubtedly the hotel’s director of marketing.

The Forensic Examiner. This CSI enthusiast treats hotel rooms like a crime scene, posting reviews with gory photographic evidence of carpet stains, bathroom mold and bedbug bites. Even when his review is glowing, his photos make the room look cheap and squalid, particularly when personal items and family members are in the background.

The Corporate Saboteur. This reviewer is a hotel owner writing a nasty, bogus review of a competitor hotel in hopes of boosting his own property’s ratings. Telltale signs include anonymity and remarks like, “I finally checked outta that dump and went to the ABC HOTEL. Twenty bucks cheaper and free donuts! I’ll never stay anywhere else!”

As a rule I bypass extreme reviews—unless there are a lot, in which case I take heed. I also skip reviews with the word “lame”, the online word of choice for people with a chip their shoulder. I find the hotel’s overall ranking to be helpful, but it doesn’t always tell the real story. Pull up your home city on TripAdvisor. Do you agree with the top five hotels? There’s always at least one that raises an eyebrow.

Recognizing that not every reviewer has the interests of fellow travelers in mind, Expedia, Orbitz and Priceline restrict reviews to customers only, whereas anyone can post a review on TripAdvisor, Yelp, Yahoo and Travelocity. TripAdvisor has been known to post a warning to travelers if it questions the authenticity of reviews, but this practice has attracted a flurry of criticism in the blogosphere.

There’s no question, online reviews are a great resource, providing insight, humor and tried-and-true tips from the field. Yet travelers shouldn’t forget to consult the experts in print and online guidebooks, newspapers and magazines. If I find a lump on my throat, I’m heading to a doctor for treatment, not to some online quack who claims to be able to show me how to remove the lump from home.

We can all help increase the reliability of reviews by posting our own after our trips. Just remember to stick to the facts, play fair, and go easy on the punctuation. And try not to get too personal. It might not always seem evident, but hotel managers have feelings too.

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Parlez-vous Franglais? Studying French in Paris, Part II

During my first few weeks here in Paris, I naturally assumed that the French word embrasser meant “to hug”. When I discovered it actually means “to kiss”, my mind raced back to all the times I had misused the term, and I prayed I would never see those people again. In fact, “to hug” in French is serrer dans les bras, which literally translates as “to squeeze in one’s arms”. It sounds a bit cold and clinical, which pretty much sums up how French people react when I try to hug them. Parisians prefer to turn cheeks and make fake kissing sounds. In North America that’s considered pretentious.

To further confuse things, the French word for “kiss” is baiser, which also means—pardon my French—“to f**k”. Either these people are deliberately trying to baiser with my mind or they don’t see a difference between kissing and boinking. Considering this is the land of “French kissing”, I’m leaning toward the latter. If jamming your tongue down someone’s throat isn’t a precursor to sex, I don’t know what is. To be safe I avoid using these words altogether.

Parisians aren’t big on gratuitous smiles either. As a hotelier, smiling is one of the basic tools of my profession. As a Canadian, smiling is how I try to make people like me. When I first arrived here I didn’t have any friends, so I smiled a lot. Since then I’ve learned that Parisians perceive smiling at strangers as a bit desperate. It’s not that they’re unfriendly, they just reserve smiles for people they know and like.

If you want to know who the tourists are in Paris—not that it requires a PhD in anthropology to spot them—just look for the people in shorts. Because I want to fit in, I wear pants almost exclusively, which means I’m often glistening with sweat and panting. I’m still trying to find a park in this city where I can suntan shirtless without feeling buck naked. Sometimes I long for my days in Rio, where men feel perfectly comfortable walking the streets in a thong.

During summertime, like other Vancouverites, I love to get outside and run, rollerblade, play tennis, hike the Grouse Grind, and ribbon dance on the beach. In Paris the favoured activity seems to be sitting in cafés, smoking and being cynical. At first I felt so exercise-deprived I didn’t think I could live here. Now I just drink wine in cafés and look back on my days of fanatical exercise with cynicism. And I’ve never felt happier or more at peace.

Part of the cafe culture here involves waiting. Once waiters get around to taking your order, they either disappear and never come back or avoid eye contact at all costs. Recently, I adopted a tactic my father uses at home when he gets tired of waiting for the bill: it’s amazing how quickly a server will resurface when you just get up and head for the exit. A local woman explained to me that North Americans come to Paris expecting servers to behave like back home: befriending us, fussing over our table, swinging by every three minutes to offer more drinks and to update us on boyfriend troubles. To the French this style of service is overly familiar and intrusive. Here waiters leave patrons alone, knowing they’ll be summoned when needed. Personally, I think the difference is more related to tipping practices. In North America servers have to hustle for tips. Here it’s included, so why hurry?

While I was lunching with friends at Les Deux Magots in St. Germain-des-Prés, a former haunt of Hemingway, de Beauvoir and Sartre, our waiter marched up to our table and accused me of stealing the menu. It turned out I had accidentally placed it in my bag along with some brochures I had been thumbing through. I thought it was funny, but the waiter was not amused, and my friends were mortified. I guess I’m not the first patron to try to run off with memorabilia.

One question comes up regularly. “Why are zee Americans so fat?” French people ask me as they stuff another wedge of bread into their mouth. Given the volumes of cheese and pastries the French eat, you’d think they’d be the heifers, but they’re just a bit squishy. I never know how to respond, so I wave away their cigarette smoke and ask them why the French smoke so much.

While visiting the Picasso Museum, I was surprised to see that some of Picasso’s early work is classic and realist, no grossly distorted body parts or eyes stuck to breasts. I’ve always been a bit suspicious of Picasso, thinking he might be some no-talent who had fooled the world into thinking he was a genius. But these pieces were brilliant. It taught me a lesson: before you can break the rules, you have to understand them. That night, I pulled out my French grammar book and dusted it off.

My friend Fabrice took me to visit one of his friends, and just before she answered the door he casually mentioned that she was handicappée. I braced myself for what kind of gross disfigurement I would spend the afternoon trying not to stare at. But she seemed perfectly able save for a small limp. It occurred to me her disability was mental, and my spirits soared, thinking our French might be at the same level. But she spoke French as rapidly and incoherently as everyone else here. After we left, I asked Fabrice what exactly was handicappée about her, and he said she had sprained her ankle. Apparently the term can refer to a long-term disability or a temporary injury. The French are so dramatic.

After four magnificent months in Paris, I have fallen in love with the city and its people. Living in Paris is like living in a massive museum, its architecture, history and culture lovingly presevered. Unfortunately, it’s time to move on. Next week I’m heading to Madrid, with a stopover in Greece to rendezvous with my Opus friends. When I go back to Vancouver in November, I’ve decided to be one of those annoying people who returns from France with a petit French accent, compares everything disparagingly to “Paree”, and inserts French words into English text, bien sûr. I’ll insist on air-kissing everyone, and while they’re out running marathons I’ll be drinking wine in cafés and being cynical. One thing I won’t mess with, however, is Vancouverites’ tendency to wear shorts year-round. Now that’s a tradition worth preserving.

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So You Want to Work in Hotels, Part II: The Interview

When I last wrote a post about how to get a job in the hotel industry, the economy was booming and hotels were so desperate for staff they were stopping just short of dragging passersby off the street and slapping uniforms on them. These days, occupancy rates have tanked, room attendants are dozing on beds rather than making them, and it seems the only place to find job vacancies is in the obituaries. 

Are job prospects that bleak? Absolutely not. Hotels are always in need of great people, but competition is fiercer than ever. Taking the time to understand the unique culture of the hotel industry will give you a leg up on other candidates. Here are a few insider tips to help prepare you for that elusive hotel interview. 

Martyrs need only apply. What’s the quickest way to get an interview with a hotel? Highlight “love working graveyard shifts” on your cover letter. The quickest way to end an interview? Say you’re looking for something nine-to-five. Hotels are a 24-hour operation, and most entry-level positions involve shift work. Your best chance to get a foot in the door is to apply for a high-turnover position like room service attendant, busser, dishwasher, line cook or any graveyard position. Be specific, and be keen. Not like the young lady I interviewed who explained that graveyard shifts would give her time to work on her personal art projects. 

Beware of the super-friendly people in suits. Your interviewer will smile and use your name frequently and will maintain eye contact for freakishly long periods of time. No, you’re not being recruited into a cult. These basic service standards are programmed into our being. Some of us really are that happy, others are gifted actors, others are heavily medicated. Don’t be lulled by that pleasant exterior; underneath is a hard-nosed interviewer who will assess your appearance, communication skills and attitude in three minutes flat. That’s as much time as you’ll have to impress our guests.

Perfection is something we strive for but never achieve. If your interviewer asks you to identify areas you’d like to improve, it’s a euphemism for weaknesses. This question strikes fear into the heart of candidates and can result in awkward silences and moronic replies. Relax, it’s okay not to be perfect. Provide an honest, thoughtful answer—unless you suffer from kleptomania or multiple personality disorder, which you might want to keep to yourself. A woman I interviewed confessed that her only weakness was perfectionism. I drew my own conclusion—lack of humility and self-delusion—and quickly wrapped up the interview. 

Is something burning? Hotels are notoriously short on office space, so don’t be surprised if your interview is held in a bar, kitchen, ballroom or suite (though hopefully not in a bedroom). The activity around you—sound checks, shattering dishes, grease fires—will be distracting, but stay focused on your interviewer. If you’re in the restaurant and are offered a beverage, ask for water or coffee, not a margarita and the filet mignon. During a dinner interview for a high-ranking position, I watched a candidate knock back two martinis and a half-liter of wine. Now that was distracting.

Hotels are glamorous for guests, not employees. Some hotel managers prance around like wealthy aristocrats, but in reality most employees live shockingly modest lifestyles when not on an expense account. The only exception is doormen, whom own apartment complexes and small tropical islands. Should your interview take you into the back-of-house, the area not meant for the eyes of guests, brace yourself for a sharp contrast: general disarray, strange odors and employees who look like they’ve never seen the light of day. A career in hotels won’t make you wealthy, but it will make you rich in life experience.  

Do you speak hotelese? Hotel employees are notorious for using jargon and acronyms to save time, sound smart and confuse guests into paying higher rates. If you don’t understand a word your interviewer is saying, don’t ask for an explanation—you’ll only be further confused. If you’re interviewing with the revenue manager, hire an interpreter. Do some advance research to understand the language of hotels and to determine whether you’re a good fit for the business. That way you’ll avoid the fate of the employee I hired who went for a break on his first day and never came back.

Interviewing with the general manager. If the GM is late, don’t fret. Given today’s tight labour budgets, he or she is probably making beds or baking breakfast muffins. He will wax poetic about how the hotel is a home-away-from-home for guests and employees are like a family, and will seem distracted and vaguely irritated. If you don’t get more than a few words in, don’t be disheartened. This guy has been dealing with people so long he’s got you figured out even before you open your mouth.

Managing post-interview anxiety disorder. You survived the interview, now what? More interviews. From two to five depending on the position and up to seventy-three for large chain hotels. Then silence. No, hoteliers don’t take glee in tormenting you. Every position is critical to our success, and the hiring process takes time. Don’t badger your interviewer with hourly calls or issue Twitter updates like “Just interviewed with uptight chick at ABC Hotel. Hope I got the job!” Send a handwritten thank-you note or email—no butterfly decals or smileys please—and continue with your search. It’s out of your hands now.

Yes, it’s a tough job market, but if you’re a good fit for the hotel business your resourcefulness and persistence will eventually pay off. Good luck.

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Lifestyle Hotels: Gotta Have Soul

Now that luxury is a bad word, hotels everywhere are scrambling to find ways to reinvent themselves without spending a whack of money. The quick fix? Simply delete all references to “luxury” in marketing materials and replace them with “lifestyle”. Magically, the hotel’s image transforms from visions of champagne baths and gold-plated toilet seats to a holistic experience involving discovery, connecting and environmental responsibility.

Travelers beware. A similar trend began about a decade ago. Word got out that boutique hotels were more profitable than other hotels, and suddenly hotels large and small were calling themselves boutique. But then a number of players tarnished the boutique reputation by emphasizing style over comfort and hiring mannequins for staff. When the big hotel chains got into the action, the boutique reputation suffered even further. Soon hotels couldn’t distance themselves quickly enough from the contemporary boutique moniker. A new buzzword was urgently required. Along came the next generation of boutique hotels: the lifestyle hotel.

What exactly is a lifestyle hotel? No one really knows. Essentially, a lifestyle hotel offers services and amenities that cater to a demographic with shared tastes, income levels, habits, attitudes and/or values. As a traveler, no longer are you obliged to leave lifestyle preferences at home while on the road. If you can’t bear to put Muffy the teacup poodle in a kennel, you can bring her along. Your hotel might even offer special meals, a spa and Pilates classes for canines. Whether you’re a vegan environmentalist, a Crackberry-addicted techno-geek or a yoga-loving lesbian, there’s bound to be a lifestyle hotel for you. But don’t call it a theme hotel; themes are for amusement parks and kids. This is sophisticated stuff.

This time the chains are leading the charge. Starwood has Element and Aloft; Marriott has Edition; Hyatt has Andaz; Intercontinental has Indigo; the list goes on. In many ways lifestyle hotels are a great fit for the chains. Whereas boutique hotels tend to be high-priced, exclusive and urban, lifestyle hotels tend to be more reasonably priced, inclusive and accessible, located in secondary markets like small cities and suburbs.

The biggest challenge for the chains is to fulfill the inherent promise of lifestyle hotels: to keep current with traveler preferences. This can be exhausting—and expensive. Running a traditional hotel is far easier; you can maintain the same décor, employees and services for decades and pass them off as old-world charm. By nature the chains are slower to react because they have a lot of players to please. Let’s take a fictional chain, Guilty Pleasures Hotels & Resorts, for example, and say they’ve decided to roll out a signature scent. Hotel scents, a questionable trend in my mind—when I travel all I want to smell is lemon-scented disinfectant—are intended to round out the multi-sensory experience while subtly signaling to guests that they have arrived at their preferred hotel, they will never stay anywhere else, and they will spend lots of money.

So corporate office eventually settles on a scent that combines hints of jasmine, apple pie, whisky, opium and hundred-dollar bills. They dispatch samples to member properties and, of course, everyone hates it, particularly the manager of the Riyadh, Saudi Arabia property, where whisky is forbidden. He suggests oil as an alternative, which offends the manager of the chain’s eco resort in Montana. The debate goes on for months, until corporate office issues a decree that all hotels must use the scent or face expulsion. By then, however, travelers tastes have changed, and hotel scents have been found to be directly responsible for global warming.

When I joined the opening team of Opus Hotel in 2001, I came from a traditional hotel background and had no clue how to market a contemporary boutique hotel. Fortunately, by then a number of boutique hotels in other cities had gotten things terribly wrong, and I was able to learn from their mistakes. I wrote a manifesto for staff that specified the vocabulary we used to describe the hotel. Words like hip, sexy, cool and trendy were banned. If you use these words to describe yourself, you just aren’t.

Back then, all we had to work with were a few design boards, a chaotic construction site, and the ownership’s vision, which encompassed three key words: fresh, warm and sensual. From this we developed our mission statement and values and recruited a management team with classic luxury training who were entrepreneurial enough to adapt to a contemporary boutique environment. Today freshness, warmth and sensuality pervades every aspect of Opus, evoking not only the lifestyle preferences of our guests but the hotel’s soul.

Soul? Soul is an essential part of any hotel, and of lifestyle hotels in particular. It is everything abstract: personality, culture and spirit, that intangible feeling that prompts a guest to remark either “It just felt right” or “Something was missing.” Soul is often overlooked by hotel executives because we can’t see it, write it into an operating manual or charge a fee for it. Some hotels have all the right elements—beautiful design, quality amenities, competent service—but feel like the other definition of soul: the spirit of a dead person. Soul cannot be factory-produced or mass-marketed; more than anything it’s shaped by employees. By defining the hotel’s vision and values and using them to guide every decision, management develops the hotel’s culture and, over time, its soul evolves organically.

Will lifestyle hotels endure or be relegated to the garbage heap of overused and abused travel trends? Only time will tell. Regardless, given the stresses of our troubled economy and the headaches of modern travel, the timing couldn’t be better for a boom in hotels that contribute to travelers’ wellbeing by catering to lifestyle preferences.

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Parlez-vous Franglais? Studying French in Paris

As part of my writing sabbatical from the hotel industry this year, shortly after the launch of my latest book I hopped on a plane to embark on a three-month sojourn in Paris. I had hoped my time here would be like a non-stop wine-and-cheese party, but upon arrival I knew no one, and the first couple of weeks were overshadowed by solitude. Now, six weeks later, I’m happily settled into an apartment near the Centre Pompidou and am writing by morning, studying by afternoon, and hanging out with my new friends by evening.

Part of my motivation in coming to Paris was to improve my French. Years ago, after four years of university French, in the great tradition of Canadian university students I was unable to conduct even the simplest yet most essential transactions, like asking for directions to the nearest bar. Last year I spent five glorious months in Montreal, but it’s impossible to learn French there because most people speak English. I used to test how long I could get away with speaking French with a local before he or she switched to English, and often I got no further than “Bonjour”. Occasionally I conducted an entire conversation, and I would walk away feeling triumphant. In retrospect I suppose ordering a coffee at Starbucks wasn’t that big a deal.

Here in Paris I’m taking French classes every weekday afternoon for three hours. During my placement interview the counselor asked me why I had come to Paris. Desperately hoping not to be placed in the remedial class, I gave a reply that was less about my opinion than about the French words I could remember. “You like Parisians?” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest. I blinked. In fact, Parisians had been cold bastards since I arrived, and none had seemed adequately appreciative of my efforts to speak their language. She went on to say that she is from the French countryside and even she finds Parisians to be rude; she could only imagine how difficult it is for Canadians, who are so pleasant and polite. I just nodded and smiled, like any good Canadian would, in part because I had no idea how to respond in French, and in part because inside I was quietly weeping in solidarity.

In class I write pages and pages of notes. Later, while out with my French friends, I can only conjure up the same handful of French words I’ve known most of my life, words like yes, no, how are you, and my that cheese is smelly. Occasionally a word I learned in class will come to me and I’ll blurt it out whether or not it has anything to do with our conversation. I never think it will fly, and brace myself for the blank stare, the pained expression, the plea to speak English. If my friend simply nods and carries on with our conversation, I’m so thrilled I insist we back up so he can properly acknowledge my genius.

At school there is a constant influx of students from all over the world, but only French is spoken in class. Some students don’t even speak English, which I still can’t get my mind around. I mean, really. When I don’t know a word in French I’m used to substituting it with an English word, but here that has as much effect as ancient Hebrew. In class I get to hear French spoken in a variety of accents: Swedish, Russian, Spanish, Australian, etc. So far I find the accent of the Chinese woman the most intriguing, and by intriguing I mean irritating. She barks out French like a fish vendor in a crowded market, and I never have any idea what she’s saying. It’s far easier to understand the American, who speaks French exactly like English, without fussing over rolling R’s or nasal sounds.

In Canada I’m a hotel executive and the author of three books. Here in France I’m regarded as a middle-aged man who speaks like a five-year-old and appears to have a severe learning disability. In class my behavior also reverts to that of a five-year-old. When I know the answer my hand shoots into the air, waving frantically. If I’m wrong, far more frequently than I care to admit, my face goes red, and I smolder with resentment toward my teacher and all my classmates, especially the Polish girl who always gets the answers right.

On principle I feel vastly superior to all new students, and quickly write them off as showoffs, hopelessly stupid or bad dressers. One day a German student came to class wearing lederhosen-like shorts, and I couldn’t stop staring at her legs, so hairy they appeared to be covered with spiders. Occasionally I decide I like someone instantly because she seems cool or he has nice shoes, but I’m always disappointed. Over time I find myself liking the people I originally loathed and loathing the people I originally liked, which doesn’t say much for my judgment.

Often I’ll start getting friendly with a student, and suddenly he or she stops coming to class. I’m sure it’s not personal, but it is kind of creepy, like the Gestapo is back in Paris and foreigners are being pulled from their beds at night. The real reason is most students are here for a short stay, sometimes only a week or two. After only four weeks I’m one of the most senior students, me and that Chinese woman, and we’re like bad-ass lifer inmates running the prison. Or the dumb kids in class who keep getting held back.

While walking home the other night I ran into some fellow students on their way to a local park to drink wine and smoke, and they invited me to join them. My first impulse was to run away, but then I reminded myself that this was the kind of experience I came to Paris for—to smugly drink wine in public parks while friends and colleagues back home were chained to their desks—so I shyly accepted. We sat on the grass and spoke bad French while passing around a bottle of wine, and it reminded me of my early days as a backpacker. Except now I’m a lot older, and I couldn’t help but worry by their furtive glances that they suspected I was an escaped child molester.

I have a few expressions I use frequently here because they make me feel French and in-the-know, like “Quoi de neuf?” and “On y va!” Recently I discovered I was misusing one. A Parisian friend texted me to cancel our plans, saying his sister was sick, and I texted back “Tant pis!” Later I discovered that although this phrase technically translates as “Too bad”, it conveys a sentiment closer to “Whatever”.

An upside to having a cold in France is it really helps with nasal sounds. At home I often practice speaking French by myself, and sometimes my accent is so beautiful and Parisian I’m moved to tears. But when I try to emulate it in class or say, in the bakery while ordering my third pain au chocolat of the day, it all comes out terribly wrong. The other night I went to a French play, and at first it was all quite thrilling, but by act two I had a headache and kind of tuned out. In one scene the actor parodies an American who considers himself Parisian after six years in Paris. The audience found his portrayal hysterical, but I only pretended to laugh along. Six years? I had started calling myself Parisian after only three weeks.

These days, I no longer resent Parisians, I love them. They’ve been incredibly warm and hospitable. Sometimes while out at night I become so absorbed in a conversations with them I don’t even realize I’m speaking French. But then I panic and bail, and my mind shuts down, refusing to produce anything but the usual words: yes, no, and can I borrow some money. I expect my friends to acknowledge my disability and switch to English, but they never do. It makes me long for those days in Montreal. But then I remind myself why I came to Paris, and I soldier on.

If the Chinese fisherwoman can do it, so can I. Tant pis.

***

Construction? What Construction? A Case Study for Hotels.

Because hotels run on the promise of comfort and rest, an onsite construction project can be particularly challenging to manage. Rather than risk sending guests fleeing to competitors, hotels often choose to keep silent about construction activity, hoping guests won’t notice the jack-hammering in the lobby. If a guest complains, management feigns shock and dismay, as though a crew marched in uninvited and began tearing down walls. Complaints are handled in the only way hotels know how: by buying the guest’s silence. If the guest is mildly irritated, he might get a brusque apology and a free local call. Pissed off? A whopping 15% off last night’s room charge, perhaps with continental breakfast thrown in—accompanied by the roar of bulldozers. Apoplectic? An escort off property by security.

Having suffered both sides—as a hotel manager, a massive construction project next door and, as a hotel guest, drilling as excruciating as a root canal—I’ve learned that hotels will better protect long- and short-term interests not by treating construction like an unspeakable secret but by being open and communicative with guests. It’s a frightening proposition, but it works.

I’ll never forget that day in 2005 when a group of super-friendly people came to Opus Hotel to tell me about plans to build an underground rapid transit station in our neighbourhood, a three-year project that would create an excavation the size of a football field directly outside our door. As the hotel’s general manager I did what any great leader would do: I locked myself in my office and had a good cry. Then I went online to look for a new job.

In the following months, my colleagues and I tried to figure out how to maintain our high occupancy and guest satisfaction ratings while under siege. An employee suggested a radical approach: we tell guests the truth. The idea was immediately dismissed as preposterous, a break from the hotel industry’s illustrious tradition of lies, deceit and blame-deflection when it comes to construction. Yet the idea fit in with our organizational values of integrity and respect, and no one came up with a better solution, so we decided to give it a whirl. From that point forward, we were completely transparent about construction, warning guests in advance and keeping them informed while on property.

It was a nail-biting risk. We were giving prospective guests a reason to stay elsewhere and providing our competitors a weapon to use against us. Many of our rooms didn’t face the construction site, and activity was sporadic—why alarm all guests when only a few would be disturbed? Transparency threatened only to exacerbate the problem.

Yet to avoid the issue can be far more damaging. While a guest of a hotel in Atlanta, I endured drilling next door for three days before I called to complain. I was transferred to the duty manager’s line, and I left a message, but I didn’t hear back. The next day a gift basket was delivered to my room. There was no note or card, so I had no idea who it came from, but it did come with a jar of tasty Georgian peach salsa. Meanwhile, the drilling turned to jack-hammering. I left another message for the manager, this time requesting to change rooms. Again, no call back. That night, another gift arrived, a slab of chocolate that vaguely resembled the hotel’s logo. It had melted—much like my resolve. I checked out the next day and, as much as I enjoyed the peach salsa, I won’t be staying there again.

In my experience, hotel guests are more understanding—and surprisingly accepting—when communication is proactive and sincere. To avoid unpleasant surprises, hotels should communicate construction activity at the time of reservation and place a notice on the website, in confirmation letters, and in group, corporate and event contracts. Most travelers are up and out early and won’t be daunted. Rooms closest to construction should be placed out of order or sold at a discount; many travelers will be willing to risk a disturbance if it means getting a great deal. Keep guests informed by placing a letter in guestrooms from the general manager explaining the nature of the work, the benefits, and the duration, and inviting guests to contact the front desk if they have concerns. Equipping rooms with earplugs and white noise machines will show that you’re trying, but will do little to drown out construction noise.

Being transparent doesn’t mean being alarmist. Sales and reservations staff should avoid comments like, “OMG it’s like a total mess here!” A simple, positive statement will do, such as, “Just so you’re aware, we’re currently upgrading our banquet facilities and you may encounter construction activity.” Do everything possible to address concerns—including, if necessary, letting the business walk. In the long run, your hotel will be better off. Hell hath no fury like a meeting planner not forewarned, and a scathing review on TripAdvisor will scare travelers off long after construction is finished. With larger construction projects you won’t be able to please everyone, so reserve the quietest rooms for your most desirable clientele. Be creative about how you respond to complaints; not everyone is looking for a freebie. Offer sincere apologies, ask how you can make it up to the guest, and respond accordingly.

Resist the temptation to be cute, like posting signs with cartoon characters in hardhats. If a guest is awoken by a dump truck unloading gravel outside her window, she won’t be amused. Years ago, at a hotel in Toronto, management decided to make light of lobby renovations by dressing up two front desk employees per shift as construction workers. Upon reporting for duty one day I was handed a hardhat and an orange vest. “I don’t think so,” I said, handing them back—the hotel’s polyester uniform was humiliating enough. I was overruled. To my surprise, I found myself enjoying the construction worker role-play thing—until I had to deal with an irate guest. Partway through his rant, he stopped, blinked, and said, “What the hell are you wearing?” The hats and vests were discontinued shortly thereafter.

Our strategy at Opus wasn’t perfect. We lost our share of business, and a number of guests fell through the cracks. Yet by being transparent we built a relationship of trust with our clientele, and our guest satisfaction ratings and occupancy remained high throughout. All hotels experience construction at some point—it’s a necessity of keeping fresh and up-to-date—and many fall victim to offsite construction from which they reap no benefits. If your hotel provides an otherwise exceptional and unrivaled experience, your guests will be far more loyal and forgiving than you might expect.

These days, while many hotels are sitting half-empty, the time is ripe for capital upgrades and renovations. Unfortunately for most hotels, upgrades will have to wait until business is stronger—which means undergoing construction while occupancy is high. All the more reason to have in place a solid guest communication plan in place.

Trevor buys a bed-and-breakfast – Is it haunted?

My latest novel is now out, and since it’s set in a bed-and-breakfast I thought it fitting to write a post on that subject.

First, a few words about Murder at Graverly Manor. In this third—and last—installment of the Five-Star Mystery series, hotelier Trevor Lambert returns to his hometown of Vancouver to recoup after suffering the trauma and drama of opening Hotel Cinema in Hollywood. When he happens upon an elegant Victorian mansion for sale in the city’s West End, he decides it’s time to pursue his dream of operating a bed-and-breakfast. But the eccentric proprietress, Lady Graverly, won’t sell until he completes a one-month trial period as innkeeper. Trevor quickly discovers that operating a B&B is far more challenging than he anticipated, and his troubles are exacerbated by vanishing residents, screams in the night, and Lady Graverly’s refusal to let him see her private quarters. When things start to go really haywire, former colleague Shanna Virani flies in from LA to help out. As the two hoteliers uncover the manor’s dark secrets, they discover that its past is inextricably linked to Trevor’s destiny.

In researching this novel I learned to appreciate the unique offerings of this often-overlooked lodging segment. Bed-and-breakfasts provide an authentic, grassroots cultural experience, and as such are popular with foreign tourists. They’re cheaper than hotels, partly because they offer fewer amenities, and are more intimate, offering personal touches, décor and in-room amenities that reflect the city they’re in. There are no cavernous lobbies, no revolving doors and no conventioneers. In a B&B you’re likely to interact with other occupants as well as with the owners. And, of course, breakfast is included.

Being a private person and somewhat antisocial, I prefer the anonymity of hotels, where constant shift changes ensure that no one can keep tabs on my comings and goings. Hotel guests are busy and blessedly standoffish, and interactions are just how I like them: rare and superficial. Call me a curmudgeon, but I’m rarely interested in chatting with strangers, particularly before I’ve had a good strong cup of coffee. I do enough of that at work, where I’m paid for it. On airplanes, after a polite hello to my seatmates, I yank down imaginary shades on either side of me emblazoned with an upright middle finger, and then bury my nose in a book. I’m more open to social interaction in the evening, particularly with a glass of wine in hand, so the B&B ritual of guests congregating at cocktail hour is more appealing. Furthermore, in B&Bs the walls tend to be thin, the plumbing more resonant, which discourages loud music, headboard-slamming sex and off-tune shower singing, and alerts the entire household when you’re taking a pee.

A few years ago, on a trip to New York I stayed at the Inn at Irving Place, twelve rooms housed in two 1834 buildings in Gramercy Park. Its antique furniture, ornaments, and fabrics in every conceivable floral pattern made me feel like I was staying at someone’s grandma’s house. I lived in constant fear of breaking something. The manager’s desk was located at the foot of the staircase, and he was super-friendly and seemingly omnipresent. To evade the obligatory chitchat I contemplated scaling the fire escape, but feared I would cause a racket and get caught. Instead I would hunker down in my room, listening for the opportune time to bolt for the door without being accosted. The service was exceptional, the rooms charming, but on my return visit I booked the 185-room Gramercy Park Hotel. I like shiny new things.

I’m more inclined to appreciate a B&B while on vacation, when I’m less uptight, more sociable, and less prone to fits of quiet rage when service is slow. One of my best experiences was at a B&B just outside of Buenos Aires called Ave Maria. The food was homey and delicious, the rooms rustic and airy, and I could escape loquacious guests by hopping on a horse and galloping across acres of Argentine pampas.

Graverly Manor is a B&B’s worse-case scenario, and isn’t meant to represent the typical experience. For example, most B&Bs don’t come with a dead body in the cellar. Though I do recall a story way back about a German guest of a Miami Springs hotel complaining at checkout about an unpleasant odor in his room. The source turned out to be a dead body under the bed.

Like Trevor, people are often seduced by a false romantic notion of operating a bed-and-breakfast. They love hosting out-of-town guests, and reason that running a B&B should be a simple matter of a few extra place settings at the breakfast table. They soon discover that paying strangers aren’t as neat or respectful as friends and relatives (as a rule), and the work can be frenetic and unrelenting. Yet the proprietors who get it right, like my friends at the West End Guest House, provide an intimate, comfortable and economical option that is simply unrivaled by hotels.

On a personal note, on Monday I’m leaving for a six-month sojourn in Europe. Aside from loafing around and bastardizing languages, I’ll be working on my next book. I’ll keep the subject a mystery for now, but I will divulge one clue: it’s not a mystery. While there, I’ll be checking out all sorts of hotels and reporting in. But, given that I’m on a sabbatical from my hotel career this year, my champagne tastes will have to be put on ice for a while. I’ll be staying in B&Bs.

Hotel Darwinism: Survival Tips for the Bold & Shameless

Lately I’ve come across all sorts of how-to articles for surviving in today’s economy, and it strikes me that, in typical fashion, the hotel industry is being far too polite. This is war, people; only the strongest will survive—for God’s sake don’t let it be your competitor. To secure your hotel’s place on the evolutionary scale, consider adopting some of the cutthroat tactics of our colleagues in other industries.

 

Make rates a moving target. These days, travelers demand discounts, but that doesn’t mean you have to keep lowering your rates. Instead, borrow a tactic from the retail industry and jack up your rack rates to give the illusion of huge discounts. Phrase it like this: “No, I’m not joking, Mr. Bottom-Feeder, I’m offering you this gorgeous Deluxe Land-Fill-View Room, which normally sells for $1,595, for only $99—a 94% discount!” Adopt the crafty pricing strategies of the airlines by changing rates constantly to confuse travelers. Advertise irresistibly low rates and then tack on hidden fees, inexplicable taxes and surcharges on surcharges. Implement automated pricing software that increases rates the instant the traveler decides to reserve.

Exasperate your guests for fun and profit. Design the online booking experience to be so frustrating guests have no choice but to call in, in which case they should be charged a booking fee. Create twenty or more room categories and insist on listing all of them, prompting time-pressed callers to blurt out, “Just book me a damned room,” in which case you should always reserve the highest-rated suite. If a caller insists on a standard room, politely explain that these rooms are reserved for the lowest echelon of traveler—namely government employees, Entertainment Book holders and Priceline customers—and are never available anyway.

Make frills and flexibility a thing of the past. Follow the shining example set by the airlines and reduce the guest experience to a room with a bed, charging a fee for everything else. Implement a luggage fee and charge extra for oversized baggage, baby carriages, wheelchairs, Seeing Eye dogs and portable dialysis machines. Charge a user fee for blankets, towels and soap and a fuel surcharge for hot water. Implement reservation change fees and charge a rate differential even if rates have gone down. If a guest cancels, charge the full amount and issue a voucher with so many conditions it’s impossible to redeem. Distribute stopwatches to front desk and housekeeping staff and charge by the minute for late checkouts and early check-ins.

Cut costs by delegating work to guests. Travelers have made it clear that nothing is more important than getting a deal—isn’t it time they made a few sacrifices of their own? Save labor costs by introducing “Do It Yourself” packages in which guests carry their luggage, clean their rooms and serve themselves meals. Reduce operating costs by closing your restaurant and having the turndown ladies sell pre-prepared meals from maid carts. In this time of “rightsizing”, does your hotel really need corporate office? Consider downsizing up.

Create new revenue streams with trumped-up charges. Implement a surcharge that sounds like a government tax but actually goes to the hotel, such as a “6% Hotel Occupancy Levy”. If a guest questions the charge, speak quickly and use lots of industry jargon. Reduce lost mini-bar revenue by hooking guests up to a polygraph machine at checkout. Process false charges to credit cards several weeks after departure, banking on the likelihood travelers will be too busy to dispute them. If they do, put them on hold for up to one hour and then transfer them to someone in Accounting who doesn’t speak English. Guests will pay exorbitant prices for parking, porn and Grey Goose vodka; test their limits by hiking up rates until consumption drops.

Boost your conversion ratio with false advertising. Post photographs on your website that make your rooms appear larger, cleaner and less dumpy than they are. If necessary, cut and paste images from websites of luxury hotels in foreign countries. Use superlatives like “award-winning”, “seven-star” and “most luxurious”. Guests will be disappointed, but the front desk will clean up the mess—they always do. Boost TripAdvisor ratings by posting glowing fake reviews, relating inspiring stories like how the concierge saved a guest’s life by giving him a tracheotomy after he choked on a pillow chocolate. Post blistering reviews of competitor hotels, reporting rumors of a faulty fire alarm system, a bed bug infestation or a recent e-coli outbreak.

Kickstart spin-off businesses. Now that mini-bar offerings have proliferated to virtually every surface in guestrooms and all furniture comes with a price tag, hotel rooms resemble a cross between a 7-Eleven and an Ikea showroom. Take this trend a step further by renting out your employees to guests to take home: a concierge to act as a personal assistant and issue Twitter updates; a bellman to act as a chauffeur and open doors; a housekeeper to ensure toilet paper ends are tucked into a perfect fold. Why allow items left behind in guestrooms to languish in lost-and-found when they can be sold on e-Bay? If guests call looking for them, remind them that the hotel cannot accept responsibility for lost or stolen items.

 

Necessary survival tactics or a lighthearted warning about the direction the hotel industry could be heading? You decide. If we can learn one thing from the airline industry, it’s that slashing services may make prices more attractive, but it doesn’t guarantee profitability. In fact, it deters people from travel by taking all the pleasure out of it. Hotels will be better positioned for long-term survival by continuing to offer a haven for harried travelers, providing the flexibility, the integrity—and yes, the occasional freebies—we built our reputations on.

 

 

Don’t Eat in Bed: Tips for making the most of room service, the costliest way to enjoy a meal

For weary travelers, there’s nothing more appealing than having a hot, scrumptious meal delivered to our hotel room. Room service brings out the kid in us. We get to do things we can’t do at home: eat in bed, watch TV, and leave our dirty dishes in the hallway. Yet the experience rarely lives up to expectations. Meals take forever to arrive, food is cold and soggy, and prices mysteriously double after we place the order.

Hotels are often accused of gouging when it comes to pricing, but the costs of delivering a single meal to a room are comparable to running a full-service restaurant with only a few customers per night. It’s a service hotels provide to guests, and almost invariably it’s a money-loser. From a guest’s perspective, it’s one of the costliest ways to take a meal and everything should be perfect. But can it be?

As a hotel manager and frequent traveler I’ve been on both sides of the room service quandary. I’ve thumbed through menus and huffed in indignation at the prices and I’ve chaired meetings where those prices were set. Last year, while living in a hotel for five months, I became intimately acquainted with the pros and cons of ordering a meal to one’s room. Here are some tips for hotel guests for making the most of the room service experience.

1.      Consider Taco Bell. I’m loath to discourage guests from spending money, but in today’s economy it’s difficult to justify dropping the cost of a week’s worth of groceries on a single meal. Yet the alternatives can be bleak: dining alone in the wastelands of the hotel restaurant or foraging for food in the mean city streets. A more prudent decision might be to head down to the local Taco Bell for an enchilada platter. If you can’t bear to leave your room and miss the latest episode of Hell’s Kitchen, consider raiding the mini-bar instead. Yes, a can of Pringles, a Kit Kat and two Buds is a revolting meal, but the calorie intake will be no greater, and in either case you’ll be filled with self-loathing afterward. Use the savings to splurge on breakfast in the hotel restaurant or beachfront property in Malibu.

2.      Do the math. Ordering room service is like booking a flight on a discount airline: the base price sounds reasonable; it’s all the extra charges that leave you feeling swindled. In addition to taxes, hotels typically add a delivery charge—a lump-sum that goes to the hotel—and a service charge—a percentage that goes to the employee. Before confirming your order, ask for the grand total and clarify whether a gratuity is included. This spares you the embarrassment of struggling over simple math calculations while the delivery person is staring at you expectantly. A 15 to 20% gratuity on net food and beverage costs is standard.  If the tip is included, don’t expect the attendant to volunteer this information; he’ll be long gone by the time you realize you double-tipped.

3.      Ask the right questions. If you call down to place your order and think you’ve been patched through to a remote island in the South Pacific, it’s because room service is usually located in the bowels of a hotel next to the kitchen. In smaller hotels you might place your order with the front desk, the switchboard, or, if labor is really tight, the general manager. Don’t be shy about asking questions. If you’re a fussy eater, ask to talk to the kitchen directly. Keep in mind these people are busy, so try to have an idea of what you want before you call and avoid idle chitchat and long, boring stories. Before you hang up, make sure the attendant repeats your order and gives an estimated delivery time. It shouldn’t take more than a half-hour—forty-five minutes tops during peak times.

4.      Don’t leave good habits at home. Room service food tends to be bland and overdone or rich and overdressed. To avoid feeling like barfing afterward, ask for sauces on the side, bypass fried foods, and order fruit for dessert. Don’t hesitate to order off-menu—any decent kitchen can whip up a green salad or grill a breast of chicken. But clarify prices first. At a Los Angeles hotel I told the order-taker I was so sick I wanted only a simple bowl of broth. She charged me $47. Go easy on the environment by requesting filtered tap water instead of bottled water and bulk condiments instead of those cute miniature bottles. Few hotels can afford to retain overnight kitchen staff, so after 11:00 PM expect a limited menu of pre-prepared items heated in the microwave. You might want to call the local pizza parlor instead. Or better yet, sleep off that booze-fueled craving.

5.      Don’t expect Michelin three-star cuisine. Room service has come a long way in recent years, but it’s still virtually impossible to deliver a piping hot, perfectly cooked meal to a room in thirty minutes or less. Attendants must navigate a back-of-house obstacle course of broken furniture, soiled linen, slow service elevators and chatty colleagues. Food warmers help keep things hot but tend to overcook the meal. Before the attendant arrives do her a favor and put away your underwear, turn off the porn, and pull on a bathrobe, ensuring the belt is securely fastened. Before she leaves perform an inventory and quality control check; otherwise you might be buttering your dinner roll with a teaspoon. If you’re not satisfied, speak up and give the hotel a chance to remedy things—don’t eat every morsel and then complain at checkout.

6.      Don’t eat in bed. The idea of eating in bed can be highly appealing, but the execution is always awkward and messy and sheets end up acting as very large napkins. To avoid tossing and turning in breadcrumbs all night, ask for your meal to be delivered on a rolling table rather than a tray—and use it. If you don’t want to wake up the next day to a horrific stench of festering leftovers, cover your plate with a napkin and place the tray in the corridor. Be sure to put on a bathrobe first, though—hotel doors self-close. Then call down to have the tray removed so your fellow guests don’t have to see your ketchup-smeared carnage when they pass your room. This also helps prevent the theft of shiny pretty silverware.

Yes, room service is expensive and fraught with risk, but in a well run hotel it will be quick, beautifully presented and served with a smile. There is simply no better way to relax on the road than by enjoying a meal in the comfort of your hotel room.