The house next door to me has been converted into luxury apartments, all of which are let via a popular lodging rental app. It’s a large, three-story Georgian house.

Access is via a key code on the door, which often causes problems for people who have not bothered to read their confirmation emails and assume that a human being will be there to greet them! On more than a few occasions, I’ve had to explain this to bewildered tourists. They are usually very polite. On one occasion, I even gave a weary traveler — just off the plane from South Africa — a hotspot so he could retrieve the code from the app.

Yesterday evening, I was leaving my house, and the second I got out the door, I was verbally accosted by a woman standing outside the house next door, with what I assume was her husband. She was in her mid-fifties, I’d say.

Before I even closed my door:

Woman: “Finally!”

Me: *Looking surprised* “Sorry?”

Woman: “We’ve been waiting here for over an hour!”

That was a lie, as they hadn’t been there when I’d come home only thirty minutes earlier.

Woman: “I’ve been ringing the doorbell and nobody’s answering!”

Me: *Trying to be polite* “Oh. Are you trying to get into the [Rental]?”

Woman: “Well, obviously! I need you to let me in immediately. This is not good enough!”

Me: “Eh, I can’t do that; you need to enter the code on the keypad.”

Woman: “What code? I don’t have time for that. Just let me in!”

Me: “I don’t have anything to do with the [Rental]; I just live next door to it. You need to enter the code on the keypad.”

Woman: “What nonsense! You’re just being lazy.”

The husband blurted out the woman’s name, and she acknowledged his existence for the first time but quickly shushed him.

Me: *Losing my patience* “Look, lady, I don’t work for the [Rental]. There is nobody there to let you in. You need to get the code they sent you and enter it on the keypad. Bye-bye.”

Then, I started to walk away quickly as I saw my bus approaching. The last thing I heard was:

Woman: “Get back here, young man! I pay your wages! I’ll have you fired for this!”

As I was regaling my friends with this tale in the pub, I wondered whether the couple would still be standing there hours later, but when I got home, they were nowhere to be seen.

I guess I should expect a write-up from my (nonexistent) manager in the morning!

I’m the assistant general manager at a recently-opened hotel in my city. I wear the fancy suit, I have the fancy nametag — it’s magnetic! — and I definitely don’t look like a guest staying there. I’m also the only member of the team who wears a suit over a generic uniform.

A woman in her mid-to-late sixties comes in and starts snooping around, so I approach to ask if I can help her.

Lady: “I just want to see the pool.”

Me: “Our pool is closed and still under construction.”

The door to the pool itself is blocked off with a “coming soon” sign.

Lady: “I saw that online, but I just wanted to see. You know how sometimes things say one thing online and another in person? Hotels really don’t keep up on that stuff.”

Me: “I’m aware that is sometimes the case, but I assure you, madam, the pool is closed and still under construction. We’re excited and hopeful to see it open in early January.”

Lady: “Is there someone I can talk to? I really want to take my granddaughter here over Christmas to use the pool.”

Me: “I’m the assistant general manager here, actually. And unfortunately, as I said, the pool isn’t expected to open until the new year. There literally, physically is no pool right now.”

The lady goes up to the front desk agent and asks about the pool and booking to use it over Christmas.

Front Desk Agent: *Slightly confused* “As my manager—” *gestures to me* “—explained, the pool won’t be open at Christmas.”

The lady looks at me and then back at [Front Desk Agent].

Lady: “Is there a manager I can speak to?”

Again, my nametag literally says “Manager” in fun, bold letters.

Me: “Madam, I am the assistant general manager, and in fact, the current acting general manager.”

The actual general manager is away aiding with another property opening.

The lady looks at [Front Desk Agent] again.

Lady: “I just don’t understand. Why can’t I speak to the manager?”

[Front Desk Agent] and I exchange a confused look.

Me: “Madam, I assure you, I am the only manager on the property.”

Lady: “I can’t believe this. I want to speak to a manager.”

Me: “I am the manager.”

Lady: *Angrily* “I said I want to speak to the manager.”

Me: *More forcefully* “Madam, I am the manager. I’m the one you want to speak to.”

The lady turns to [Front Desk Agent] again.

Lady: “Call the manager, right now. This service is so unacceptable. I just want to bring my granddaughter to use the pool over Christmas!”

Me: “Madam, again, I am the manager, and as I’ve repeatedly told you, we do not have a pool that will available over Christmas. There is no pool.”

Lady: *Angrier* “Why didn’t you just say that? It says you have a pool online. This is not acceptable! I’m going to speak to the manager and get you all fired!”

I am so done with this.

Me: “Sure. Please do. I’ll be more than happy to fire myself and then collect severance for unlawful termination. It will make for a great Christmas bonus. I’ll take my wife and kid to Fiji!”

Lady: *Red in the face* “Your manager will hear from me! How dare you ruin my granddaughter’s Christmas?! I’ll make sure to tell everyone you won’t let anyone use your pool!”

The lady then stormed out.

I recognize that the lady may be in the early stages of something serious mentally, but in the entire interaction, she was very clear-headed. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone so forcefully deny my existence like this before.

I worked in a hotel over twenty years ago. We had a night where we were overbooked, and we knew we would have to send about twelve rooms of guests to another property. This was not typical, but we had a contract come in later for thirty rooms for a two-week stint, government pre-paid. These guests were always well-behaved, and we weren’t going to tell them no because we would be oversold one night.

When we were oversold, we noted which guests were only staying for a single night, so we didn’t have to worry about moving them back to our hotel the next night. There were about twenty-five of these single-night guests checking in. Because this was such an egregious oversell, the vice president reserved rooms at the super high-end, historic (and famous) hotel down the road. This way, as these guests came to check in, we could at first just make the offer to them and hopefully we’d get all volunteers rather than having to force people out. Per our company policy back then, we paid for it in full. So, basically, these guests would get a free night at a really nice hotel.

Despite the offer of a free night at a nicer hotel, for which we would provide transportation, it got to the point that we would have to send the last five to the other hotel regardless. Some of the check-ins I understood wanting to stay with us, such as ones that had kids they’d rather not see running around a hotel like that, but others just didn’t care if they spent the money. The ones that did take the offer jumped on it and were quite happy.

Of the last five, three of the guests arrived together. They shrugged it off and took the shuttle over. They seemed middling about it, but they got off our airport shuttle, so I think they were more tired than anything.

The fourth to arrive… was a doozy. He was dressed in a tailored three-piece suit and had metal luggage — visually presented to impress.

Me: “We are out of rooms for the night, but since your reservation is guaranteed, we’re footing the bill to move you to [High-End Hotel] down the road.”

This hotel down the road wasn’t part of a chain. It had been independent for its entirety — over 100 years old now. They had over 700 rooms and a private golf course, and they hosted “heads of state”-type events. They were a very posh and very “if you have money, you know” type of place.

Mr. Three-Piece Suit: “I am not going to be shoved off into some no-name hotel.”

Me: “Sir, this is a very exclusive hotel and much nicer than—”

Mr. Three-Piece Suit: *Interrupting* “I only stay at internationally-recognized brands, not one-off no-name hotels that no one has heard of.”

Me: “Three out of the last four sitting presidents have stayed—”

Mr. Three-Piece Suit: *Interrupting again* “Did. You. Not. Hear. Me? I only stay at the best of the best.”

At that point, the night manager was walking up to the front.

Night Manager: “Hello, sir. I’m [Night Manager], the manager. Is there a problem?”

Mr. Three-Piece Suit: “I am staying here! I will not be sent off to a no-name hotel!”

[Night Manager] looked at me and I shrugged.

Night Manager: “Sir, [High-End Hotel] is a world-class facility—”

[Mr. Three-Piece Suit] interrupted him, very loudly, turning red. [Night Manager] takes no s*** but politely smiled.

Night Manager: “Fine. We will put you up in an ‘internationally-recognized brand’.”

He walked the man over to guest services so our driver could take him across the highway to an “internationally-recognized brand” that had a good reputation but was definitely a step down from us.

The last guest to come in — a local couple who was having Grandma babysit so they could have a night free — were absolutely giddy about getting to stay or free at the historic hotel down the road.

But [Mr. Three-Piece Suit]? Who knows? My guess is he was trying to look the part of a rich executive but didn’t have enough information to play the part.

I studied abroad in my junior year of college, and a group of us decided to take a bus tour during spring break through several countries in Europe. The days were jam-packed, and we stumbled into our hotel room rather late one evening.

The lobby included a check-in desk, a seating area, and a small bar. The receptionist informed us that there was no bartender on staff this time of night, but she could serve us beer or wine if we wanted it. Our tour guide checked us in while the rest of us waited and talked. We all wanted to have a drink before turning in, and as we discussed the menu on display it, became apparent that I was the only one planning to order wine; everyone else wanted beer.

The receptionist finished at the desk and came around the bar. She looked at me first.

Receptionist: “What would you like?”

Me: “I’ll have a Riesling, please.”

Receptionist: “Of course.”

She poured me a glass — and by that, I mean that she poured me a FULL glass, at least two standard servings of wine, maybe two and a half.

Receptionist: “Why do people only pour half a glass of wine? I never understand it.”

Suddenly, all of my classmates also decided they were in the mood for wine. The receptionist continued to have a very generous pour, and she chatted with us for a while until we went up to our rooms.

I work in a hotel. Whoever does the night audit shift and security is allowed to park their car on the edge inside the wide carport. People can still drive through it. This is a boon for us, because we like to keep an eye on our cars during these hours. Years ago, I had somebody mess with my car twice when I parked further away while doing a shift from 3:00 to 11:00 pm.

Every now and then, the carport will have a guest temporarily park in my spot behind security while they check in. That’s no big deal; I can temporarily park in the loading bay about fifty feet away until it clears out.

One day when this happens, soon after I clock in, an extremely angry lady comes to the front desk.

Lady: “There’s a car in a disability-accessible spot without a sticker! I demand that it be towed!”

She shows me a picture on her phone… and it is my car.

Me: “Ma’am, that’s my car.”

It’s probably a mistake to tell her that.

Me: “But that isn’t an accessible spot. It’s a loading bay typically used for deliveries, like food trucks.”

The loading bay area is next to the accessible spots, but there’s not an accessible sign where I’m parked. It’s about three times the size of a regular parking spot, and it has vertical lines in it from top to bottom.

Lady: “Well, it’s not any kind of parking spot.”

Me: “I agree. If you can acknowledge that, then why are you treating it like it’s a parking spot?”

She doesn’t give an answer, and we repeat this cycle of conversation. She keeps making exaggerated facial expressions that come across as condescending and snooty, as if she doesn’t believe me — the guy working behind the desk at the property.

Then, she turns and walks toward the front door.

Lady: *Loudly, over her shoulder* “I’m going to tell my husband!”

Me: *Calling after her* “Please, do!”

As she is exiting, I hear her yell out to somebody:

Lady: “You’re going to flip your lid! The guy said…”

The “husband” never comes inside or calls me. I see another person on the camera, but it is dark and they quickly walk off to one of our other buildings.

About five minutes later, my security person comes up to me.

Security: “Why are the police here?”

I get a sense of dread and think, “She better have not called the police.”

Yes, yes, she did. The police officer says they got a call from a person not wanting to identify themself about this situation. He is parked on the edge of the carport.

Officer: “There’s not even an accessible sign there!”

We talk about it and kind of find the whole situation funny. The cop is able to tell that I am not in a parking spot, accessible or otherwise, from fifty feet away in the dark. He waves it off.

Officer: “Don’t worry about it. Even if there were a real case, it’s up to the property to have a car towed or removed, not the police.”

The fact that the lady didn’t want to give her identity makes me think she knew she was in the wrong.