The Paperless Hotel Room

I recently stayed at a five-star hotel in an Australian city. The place described itself as ‘luxe’ with harbour views. Our official check-in time was specified on the booking as 3pm.

Having arrived by car, we were greeted at the entry desk by a very helpful doorman who explained that they would take care of our modest amount of luggage and valet park the car for an overnight fee of $60. This was $20 more than self-parking which allowed for one entry and one exit during the booked period, a little mean for anyone wanting to take a drive or fill their car with petrol during their stay. We opted for the valet and entered a dazzling gilt foyer with an escalator worthy of a Trumpian presidential announcement. Maybe this is ‘luxe’ but I thought ‘crass’ probably more accurate.

As we were 50 minutes earlier than our official check-in time we were told that room was not yet ready but they would ‘expedite the cleaning’ and meanwhile maybe we’d like to visit the café along the dazzling corridor and await a text from the front desk informing us as to the room’s readiness. Here we shared a croque monsieur, or a crook monsieur – a soggy piece of toast topped with a slice of ham and a gelatinous goo of cheesy béchamal sauce. We amused ourselves with a spot of people-watching hoping for a glimpse of some celebrity luxe fellow guests wearing their stealth wealth garments, all we mostly saw were men with oleaginous coifs in hi-shine polyester track suits. Egalitarian athleisure luxe obviously. By half past three and no text we decided to check again with reception. It appeared that our room had been cleaned sort of expeditiously but we hadn’t been informed at the going rate, we had just forfeited about $20 worth of our allotted 20 hours, or the cost of valet parking.

Upon our arrival in the room the advertised harbour views turned out to be so remote as to be invisible given the many buildings obscuring a view of the cables holding up the Anzac Bridge which was as close to an assumption of water as I could see.

The ’48” LCD TV’ was displaying the usual personalised greeting and a series of tabs covering dining, gaming, activities and other guest facilities. As my partner was attending a function I decided that I’d enjoy an evening of watching TV and some in-room dining.

After selecting the dining tab on the screen I found that there appeared to be upwards of 15 options for eating and drinking but absolutely no information on how to get a meal delivered to one’s room. I scoured the drawers and cupboards for a compendium, assuming that it would list my in-room dining choices. The only ink-on-paper in the entire room was a Gideons Bible.

After about two hours of consulting the TV information on bars, cafes, casual and signature dining, I decided to go pre-digital and make a phone call. As it turned out there was a dedicated in-room dining button on the land line (yep, they still exist). A quick call revealed that, silly me, if only I had stuck my head inside a cupboard, between the kettle and the wall I would have found a QR code to scan which would lead me to a website listing my food and drink options for the salver and cloche-covered meals on wheels.

Sure enough after seamlessly connecting to the website I was presented with the usual array of photographs of chicken wings and burgers along with a few more ambitious offerings but prior to placing my order I was asked to agree to the terms and conditions. What I wasn’t ready for was the 2,837 words that followed. I decided to be a little reckless and skip a detailed read so I just ticked the ‘accept’ box and hoped for the best with my contractual recklessness.

I decided on a couple of entrees and was a little surprised when the amount due was eight dollars more than the cost of the food. When I reached the checkout section of the cart it emerged that in-room dining was not something that you actually ate in the room, you could order and pay but the in-room bit actually cost another eight dollars for delivery. I think this was a cost attributed to an ‘enhancement’ as the booking confirmation stated. I think breakfast was another enhancement along with the valet parking and possibly the missing harbour view.

The booking confirmation came with a further 757 words of policy, including a rather ominous warning that if evidence of smoking was found in the room or on the balcony an additional fee ranging from $350 to $550 would be charged for cleaning. Oh, and yes, all emails are accompanied by a 225-word disclaimer with stern exhortations about the destruction of any correspondence sent in error and a denial of liability to the maximum extent permitted by law.

With that kind of verbosity no wonder they were limiting the use of paper.?