CONTENT WARNING: Sexual Harassment

This story occurs just before upskirting was made illegal in the UK. For those not in the know, “upskirting” is the practice of taking a photo up a woman’s skirt or dress without her prior knowledge, and since its outlawing, it is legally considered a sexual offence.

I work in a restaurant for a five-star hotel in Central London, and we have a very strict dress code to adhere to: casual work suits for men, and dress suits for the ladies. Whilst ladies are allowed to wear trousers, there is an emphasis made on at least owning a dress suit.

I normally operate the morning shift with two other colleagues. A part of our duties involves going down to Room Service to collect pastries for the breakfast rush; the pastries are always made overnight and are delivered in time for the mornings.

[Room Service Attendant] normally collects these and stows them in Room Service for safekeeping. However, he has recently taken up the idea of stowing them in a completely weird place: behind a building plinth in the same room, making it a little more complicated than it needs to be to collect them. [Room Service Attendant] almost always works the overnight shift, which is fine since he requested to do so. However, many of our colleagues find him a little weird personally. He doesn’t tend to socialise a lot with anyone, and he talks to himself and generally isolates himself from his colleagues with his strange behaviour. Most of us put it down to him working all-nighters.

Anyway, normally, one of the other colleagues who arrives half an hour later than us collects the pastries on the way up. It’s an easy task that’s only required to be completed by one person; however, today we are fully booked for a family reunion, so we decide to order more pastries than usual just in case we run out early. We order twice as much, so I join [Colleague] on her way down. On the way, I receive a phone call from another colleague, so I arrive at Room Service a little while later than [Colleague].

Me: “Hey! Sorry about that. I was—”

I round the corner as I’m speaking and see [Colleague] loading the trolley with pastries, and [Room Service Attendant] is sitting behind her in such a way that her rear is almost in his face. My unexpected arrival obviously scares the daylights out of him because, as soon as I say hello, he almost jumps out of his seat — and perhaps more strangely, his hands dart both into his pockets, and his face flushes full red.

Me: “You okay, mate?”

Room Service Attendant: *Speaking quickly and breathing heavily* “Yeah, yeah fine…”

Something’s really not correct with what’s been seen. But as our guests will be arriving in less than an hour, I let it go and go back to the restaurant with our pastries. I let my manager know on the side what I saw and she says she will look into it.

About a month later, my manager approaches me as I begin work.

Manager: “I let [Room Service Attendant] go. You remember what you told me before?”

She had grown suspicious of [Room Service Attendant] as, apparently, this was not the first time behaviour like this was reported from him. She had personally asked the restaurant staff to be extra vigilant the next time they had to collect from Room Service. When [Colleague] did one time, she found [Room Service Attendant] behind her again, with his phone torch (flashlight) activated and positioned between her legs. [Room Service Attendant] was fired within the hour, but not before [Colleague] delivered a punch that caused his nose to bleed so severely he had to go to hospital for it. When the police asked how his nose came to be fractured, “nobody” blamed [Colleague].

This happened when I was about twenty-six or twenty-seven, and I was staying at a hotel. I was passing the time in the bar, chatting to some of the locals.

One woman came up to us, and the conversation got around to our ages; I suspect she might have steered it that way. Anyway, she asked me to guess her age. I declined, but she insisted.

Me: “No, I really shouldn’t. I always end up insulting people who ask that question, no matter how hard I try not to.”

Woman: “Go ahead! It’ll be fine!”

So, I looked at her and tried to work out whether or not she was trying to look older or younger. You see, my young, inexperienced, and awkward self back then knew that some ladies liked to make themselves appear older; to say an age that was younger would be insulting. I also knew that some ladies wanted to look younger and to say an age that was older would also be insulting.

Me: “Please don’t make me guess.”

Woman: “I insist!”

Going by the amount of foundation on her face, I suspected she wanted to look younger. She had LOADS on there. With all of that and all of the other makeup on her face, she looked like she had been at ground zero when a paint factory blew up. Had she changed the expression on her face too quickly, she could have caused a minor dust cloud to appear.

I took a rough estimate as to how old she looked to my eyes, took off ten years, and then took off a few more for good luck.

Me: “Thirty-five?”

Her smile remained on her mouth, but I could see the moment when the smile left her eyes. 

Woman: “You’re exactly right.”

I made my excuses and left the bar. I know she said she wouldn’t be upset with whatever I said, but even I could tell that she wasn’t exactly made up about my answer.

I am taking my first out-of-state vacation in five years, and I’ve flown all the way from the USA’s West Coast to the East Coast to stay in a couple of large but lesser-visited cities instead of the major tourist areas like New York, Philadelphia, or Washington. 

I spend five nights in the first city on my tour, an East Coast state capital, and while the experience in the city is fantastic, the hotel is… something else.

Day one. I arrive fairly late in the evening and give the receptionist at the front desk my ID, and he looks at it very suspiciously.

Receptionist #1: “Is this fake?”

I’m surprised; my picture doesn’t look THAT outdated.

Me: “No? That’s me.”

He hands my ID back, thankfully.

Receptionist #1: “I can’t accept this.”

Me: “What’s wrong with it?”

Receptionist #1: “If I told you, you’d come back with a better fake. Do you have a real ID?”

Me: “Fine. Whatever. I have my passport, as well.”

I hand the attendant my passport, which is some five years older than my license, with an even more outdated photo. He takes one look at it before tossing it back.

Receptionist #1: “No, that one has the same problem.”

Me: “Which is what?”

Receptionist #1: “There’s no such place as Oregon.”

Me: “…I’m sorry, what? It’s a state in the Pacific Northwest, directly above California. I’m from Portland.”

Receptionist #1: *Condescendingly* “Portland is in Maine.”

Me: “There is a Portland in Maine, yes, that’s the original—”

Receptionist #1: “Oregon was that country all the pioneers went to in the covered wagons. The Oregon Trail.”

Me: “Exactly!”

Receptionist #1: “But it doesn’t exist anymore. It’s part of Canada now.”

Me: *Thoroughly astounded* “Okay, pull up Google Maps…”

After looking at a map of the US, including the Wikipedia article about the state of Oregon and how it became the thirty-third state in 1859, to [Receptionist #1]’s credit, he does seem to admit defeat and accept my ID as valid. Naively, I think that’s the end of the issues.

Day two. I spend the day exploring the city, and I go back to the hotel to find that my key card has been deactivated. Silly me; I accidentally kept my key card in the same pocket as my phone. I usually don’t make that mistake. I go back down to the front desk. There is a different person working there this time.

Me: “Hey, I’m sorry. I accidentally deactivated my key card. I had it in the same pocket as my—”

[Receptionist #2] acts as though I’ve asked her to personally carry my luggage up three flights of stairs.

Receptionist #2: “Guhhh… What room number?”

Me: “Uh… [number].”

This receptionist doesn’t even check my ID at all; she just takes the key, remagnetizes it, and sends me on my way. I am a little concerned about the security in this hotel, but I’m not about to go through the same Oregon song and dance with this receptionist, so I just take my key and leave.

Day three. I come back to my hotel room around lunchtime to find my key deactivated again, even though I’ve kept it away from magnetic sources. Sighing and resigning myself to another visit to the front desk, I bite the bullet and go get it reactivated.

Receptionist #2: “You know, you really can’t keep your key card in your pocket with your phone or other cards because it messes with the magstripe. Don’t you know that?”

Me: “I’m aware. I’m sorry. Just… set it back up, please.”

This time, I put my wallet, phone, and passport in my left cargo shorts pockets, with the room key literally the only thing in my right pocket. Not six hours later, I try to get back in my room, and… no dice. Mentally cursing my luck, I march back down to the front desk.

Me: “Key’s broke again.”

Receptionist #2: “God, I told you—”

Me: “I’m going to stop you right there. Look at this.”

I then proceed to show the receptionist exactly where everything is in my pockets, after which she just sighs and remakes my key.

Me: “At this point, wouldn’t it just be easier to get me a completely different key? If this one is refusing to hold a charge—”

Receptionist #2: *Glaring at me* “No. I’ve already made the key. Just go.”

All righty, then. I am too tired and frustrated to say anything, so I head for the elevator to return to my room. But as soon as the doors open—

Me: “What in the f***?”

Somehow, the elevator itself is stuck a full eighteen inches above the actual floor level, and the poor elderly lady actually in the elevator is just as surprised as I am. After helping the lady out, I go back to the receptionist to let her know that the elevator appears to be malfunctioning.

Receptionist #2: “And how is that my problem? It still works fine. Just watch your step.”

Needless to say, I take the stairs after that.

Day four. Somehow, nothing bizarre actually happened with the hotel itself today. Just… surrounding it. I call a rideshare to drive me to the other side of town for a sporting event. While standing outside waiting for the driver to show up, I see the rideshare car enter the parking lot, drive right by me, and do two very slow laps around the hotel. The driver looks very confused when she passes by the second time. I am unable to flag her down and get her attention before she just wanders off back onto the highway, and I get a notification that my ride has been canceled.

So, I resort to taking the bus. Fine enough… except that on the way back, the driver completely ignores my signal to stop at the station just outside the hotel. 

Me: “Um… sorry, that was my stop.”

Bus Driver: *Happy as a clam* “Hmm? Oh, there’s no bus stop at that corner. I’ll drop you at the next one.”

When I make it back to that corner, I take a good long look at the very plainly marked bus stop on the hotel’s corner, served only by the line that I rode.

Okay. Apparently, this hotel is just in another dimension or something.

Day five: my last day before flying to another city. I collect all my dirty laundry and go pay a visit to the laundry room downstairs, only to find the door locked. Upon closer inspection, I realize that it hasn’t actually opened for the day yet; it’s 8:45, and the sign says it opens at 9:00. No big deal. I hang out in the lobby and read for a while.

It’s almost 9:30 by the time I check on the laundry room again. It’s still locked. I head up to the front desk yet again, thoroughly ready for this saga to be over. Lo and behold, there’s a completely different receptionist this time. My heart rises with hope for one very brief moment.

Me: “Hey, sorry, it looks like your laundry room hasn’t been unlocked yet. It says it’s supposed to open at 9:00—”

Receptionist #3: “It’s not for customers.”

Me: *Pauses* “Sorry, what? It says on the door, ‘Guest Laundry.’ I’m a guest in room [number].”

Receptionist #3: “You’re not a guest; you’re a customer. The laundry room is not for customers.”

Me: *Pauses again* “Then what, pray tell, would qualify anyone as a guest, if staying at your hotel makes them a customer?”

Receptionist #3: “Are you a president? Are you a governor? Are you [Some Celebrity I’ve never heard of]? No? Then you’re a customer.”

My mind blown, I walked down the street with my bag of dirty laundry to a laundromat a half-mile away. Upon returning, I completely forgot about the stupid elevator and got in. As soon as the doors closed and the horrid grinding started, I knew I’d made a mistake.

Somehow, the elevator made it almost to my floor. I say, “almost,” because it opened the doors about four feet below my floor. I have absolutely no idea how in the world the mechanisms in any elevator could even make that possible, but this particular elevator didn’t look like it had been inspected — much less maintained — since the Carter administration.

Not one to admit defeat, I tossed my laundry bag up onto the landing and climbed out. I was just about ready to go down and demand the hotel’s manager, something I absolutely NEVER do. I just wanted to drop my clothes off in my room first.

I got to my room… only to find my key card once again deactivated.

The worst part? I discovered that [Receptionist #3], who had denied me the use of the laundry room, was the day manager, and [Receptionist #1], who thought Oregon was the American Atlantis, was the night manager.

I went back to my room, survived the final night, packed up, dropped my useless keys at the front desk, and booked it straight to the airport.

I’ll go back to [City] in a heartbeat; I loved it and had a great time. But I can’t help but wonder if that hotel was halfway into a different reality entirely.

This story is part of our Not Always Working Most-Epic Stories roundup!

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I work in a hotel. It was still slow when I got this phone call in the afternoon, which gave me the time I needed to sufficiently bang my head on the desk until either this lady gained some sense or I lost my own.

Kidding. It did warrant a facepalm, though — and a recounting to all the housekeepers still there about how ridiculous this lady was.

I got a phone call and answered with the standard greeting. It was someone from Central Reservations (CRS). CRS is basically software that allows our rates and availability to be updated on all websites selling our rooms in real time. They can also take phone calls we miss — for a hefty fee, so we’re told to avoid it at all costs. I’d previously been on another call while someone else tried to call repeatedly — no more than three rings before they hung up and called again. And again. And again. They were finally routed to CRS, and CRS called me after they weren’t able to placate this lady in hysterics.

By that time, I was finally free to take that call.

CRS: “[Guest] is claiming to have a reservation with you, but we can’t find it no matter what we search for. Can I connect you with the guest?”

Me: “Sure.”

CRS: “Thank you so, so much, have a great day!” 

I was connected with this guest.

Me: “How can I help you, ma’am?”

Guest: “I have a reservation with your hotel and I want to confirm my booking.”

Me: “Okay, easy enough. Can I have your confirmation number?”

She recited it for me. It was most certainly not one of our confirmation numbers.

Me: “Ma’am, that doesn’t sound like one of our confirmation numbers. Is it possibly an itinerary or booking number? Third-party booking places sometimes generate those for reservations they make.”

Guest: “I don’t know what it is; it’s under a line that says, ‘Your booking has been confirmed.’”

Er, okay I guess. I searched for it as an itinerary number with no luck. Then, I searched it as a confirmation number just in case, but as I suspected, nothing showed up.

I asked for her name. Searched by her name. Nothing. I asked for her phone number, she said she didn’t give a phone number when she called us to book. Ugh, okay. I even asked which dates she had booked for and looked through all the arrivals on that day. Still nothing.

She was impatient and aggressive on the phone.

Me: “Ma’am, are you absolutely sure you booked a room for this hotel? The [Hotel] by [Brand] in [Town], Pennsylvania? This isn’t one of our confirmation numbers.”

She exploded.

Guest: “No, that is not where I booked it! I booked a room at [Different Hotel Chain] in Canada!”

Me: “Okay, uh, well, this is the [hotel] in Pennsylvania. You’d have to check with the hotel you booked with.”

Guest: “I don’t understand why you can’t just look up my reservation! Aren’t they all interconnected?!”

Me: “I, er… Interconnected?”

Guest: “Yes! All the hotels everywhere are interconnected in the computer. You should be able to see my reservation! I just want it confirmed, that’s all!”

Me: “No… No, that’s not… I can only see reservations that people make for this specific hotel in this specific location. You have to call the hotel you booked — in the location you booked it for — and ask them to find your reservation.”

Guest: “Are you kidding me? You’re being serious?!”

Me: “Uh, yes, that’s how the reservation systems work.”

Guest: “So, you’re telling me that I have to hang up and go find another number and call someone all over again and just hope they have my reservation? Is that what you’re saying?!”

Me: “You’ll have to call someone else, yes, but you can call the hotel you booked through an—”

And she hung up on me.

What a crackpot! “Aren’t all the hotels interconnected?” No, ma’am, they are not. If you want to check on your reservation in Canada, you should probably call them at that location. Y’ain’t even in the right country. People.

Our hotel has a shuttle that runs Monday to Friday from eight to four. A guest comes up to me on a Saturday.

Guest: “Can the shuttle can take me to the stores downtown?”

Me: “The shuttle only runs weekdays, ma’am,”

Guest: *Completely deadpan* “Today is a weekday.”

Me: “No, it’s not. It’s Saturday.”

Guest: “Exactly!”

Me: “So… that’s not a weekday.”

Guest: “But today is a day… in the week!“

I had to explain what weekdays and the weekend were. They didn’t believe me.