Sunday

If you watch Seinfeld, or obsess over it like I do, you’ll recognize the following exchange:


Kramer: What’s today?
Newman: It’s Thursday.
Kramer: Really? Feels like Tuesday.
Newman: Tuesday has no feel. Monday has a feel, Friday has a feel, Sunday has a feel….
Kramer: I feel Tuesday and Wednesday…
Jerry: All right, shut up the both of you!


I think maybe I’ll write a multi-part piece on days of the week.  In the concierge world, days do indeed have a feel (though the jury is still out on Tuesday).  Let me start with Sundays, which most definitely have a feel.

They suck.  Sundays fucking suck real bad.  The majority of the hotel checks out each and every Sunday.  Occupancy typically goes to about 25% from a turgid 90-100%.  You think I’d be fucking thrilled, and believe me, I am happy to see most every one go, but I’m about as happy to have the remaining 25% left behind as I am dingleberries.  The people still lingering come afternoon, for my shift (the skank shift), either don’t know what they’re doing there, don’t want to be there, both, or are just clueless altogether.  I’m suspicious of anyone that approaches my desk on a Sunday after noon, and I brace myself (read as: preemptively drive my blood pressure to boiling and hold back exploding on those who say hi in passing) accordingly.

The dessert that 9 out of 10 baby seal clubbers prefer.

The dessert that 9 out of 10 baby seal clubbers prefer.

Today was naturally a typical Sunday, though defnitely not as annoying as most.  Observe today’s very emblematic happenings:

  • deal with a guest who asks us to reserve a suburban taxi for him – against our advice, knowing they’ll be late – and who is annoyed because the suburban taxi is 25 minutes late
  • deal with the annoyed taxi driver who is pissed the guest left in another cab, despite is egregious tardiness; that one was at least satisfying in that I was able to let the taxi driver know what a dumbshit he was being, without any repercussion;  if only more people whom I could be a complete dickhead to without career ramifications would fuck with me, I’d be a happier, healthier me
  • the guy who insists he ate at an Italian restaurant at “14th and State” a year ago, but doesn’t recognize the names of the only two Italian restaurants in that area, and pauses furtively when his wife suggests he call the concierge at the Hilton who recommended the restaurant way back when – pause all you want, fellah!  I know how this “I ate at a restaurant in ’93…” game goes, and if you want to play it with the Hilton, leave me the fuck out.
  • the guy who wants to know if the restaurant in a nearby mall is open at 8pm on a Sunday – for cake.  And then acts like any other recommendation on where to get cake on a Sunday evening after 8pm is idiotic
  • the couple who very humorlessly asked where to get strawberry shortcake – “Your restaurant doesn’t have it???”  Isn’t there some fucking absurdity (or at least shame) to asking a complete stranger for strawberry shortcake???  I’m not saying I’m exactly wandering barefoot in a bombed out Dresden in a Vonnegut novel, but Christ – who eats strawberry shortcake?
  • the obligatory “First time here, what should we do?” question.  How about buy a fucking guide book 3 weeks ago?  That’s what you should do.  The “What should we do” question could easily be interpreted as “I will stop by  your desk at least 10 times a day for the next 72 hours and I guarantee you will not see a dime from me.”
  • the woman who went through a list of Chicago’s most mediocre restaurants and casually followed them all up with “So you’d say that’s one of the best?”  Huh?  Did I give you that impression by simply not farting into the phone when you mentioned them?
  • the 40-something Spanish yuppie (my favorite!) who interrogated me about somewhere to go for live music – preferably rock – or house music, and that would have people of a “similar age”.  This encounter led to a near record amount of “Well today is SUNDAY…” utterances, as if there are rock bands and house DJs trampling one another to get to the places where they can play for shallow, arrogant, asshole Spaniards sporting khakis and Tag-Heuer watches on Friday and Saturday.
  • the girl who was fucked off I couldn’t be bothered with the question of who, other than Northwest, KLM’s corporate partners might be – and that was a hotel employee

You see, the idiotic questions aren’t limited to just the hotel guests.  And today was a glaring exception to the Standard Sunday rule of someone who’s not even staying at the hotel asking for something totally outrageous.  It rarely lacks the audacity equal to asking for a fucking kidney, and when you ask for their room number, they get all apoplectic.

I hate Sundays.

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One Response

  1. Sory, but I’m gonna have to disagree with you on this one. There’s nothing idiotic about asking for Strawberry Shortcake in June. Granted, it is a very specific request, and one that may certainly be irksome, but it’s not fucking January right now. I guess, all I’m really saying is, it could be worse.

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