Javier Montes: The Hotel Life

I’ve brought just a light suitcase. I could easily have taken more, heavier bags, though, because the journey was a short one. Eight blocks — or zero point six two miles, according to the printed taxi receipt. It took me twenty minutes because of the traffic. No one said goodbye to me or closed the front door behind me; no one came with me, let alone followed me. But they were waiting for me when I arrived, with the room I was about to spend the night in reserved under my name.

I live so close to the hotel that it would have been quicker to walk. If I hailed a cab, it was only so that I would start the trip off on the right foot. It was still a trip, even if it was a short one, and I wanted to take it seriously from the outset. I have always taken my work and my trips seriously; in the end, they’re more or less the same thing.

Or perhaps it was the exact opposite, and what mattered was knowing how to play, too, when the time is right for it. I’ve spent half my life going from one hotel to the next, but before now I had never slept in one in my own city. That’s why, when they called from the newspaper to suggest I review the Imperial, I ended up agreeing to do it. I think we were all surprised that I did.

“They’ve finished remodeling it, they sent the brochure the other day.”

At first I refused. They know I never write about new hotels.

“But this one isn’t new. It’s the same old Imperial. They’ve just given it a face-lift.”

I don’t like new hotels — the smell of paint, the piped-in music. And I don’t trust refurbished ones. When they get a face-lift, they lose the character that stands for common sense and even sentiment — or at least for a good memory — in the old ones. I’m not sure I’m the sentimental type, but I do have a good memory. I’m starting to see that beyond a certain age, the two things blend into one, and that’s almost certainly why I prefer hotels that know how to remember.

It’s been a long time now since I settled my deal with the paper and gave them my conditions. I choose the hotel of the week. They pay. Expensive or cheap, near or far, big names or hidden gems, usually one night but sometimes two. No scrimping (they scrimp enough on my pay as it is) and no pitching hotels to me. I don’t accept invitations in return for reviews.

And no, not even for a bad review, as I once had to explain over the phone to a PR rep who was either new or very clever.

Everyone in our little world knows that, but even so, a lot of invitations arrive for me at the office (I’ve forbidden them from giving out my details). They send them in the hope that one will slip through, I suppose, in case the day comes when I turn soft and agree to go and they spoil me and set me up in a nice, big room and I fill a page with glowing praise that they can frame and hang up in reception or post on their website, something that will bring the guests and their money flowing in — and that, even if it doesn’t bring them in or they don’t need it, will afford them things that are sometimes worth as much as money, or more: a seal of approval from the profession, the warmth of gratified vanity, the certainty that they are treading the righteous path of the hotelier.

Because it’s true my column continues to be a big success. And even though they don’t often tell me as much at the paper, so that it won’t go to my head, I know that hotels, airlines, and travel agencies are tripping over themselves to get a half-page ad in “The Hotel Life”. That’s a relative sort of success, obviously, as is any success on the printed page. Every so often, someone encourages me to start a blog collecting together all my reviews. Even the people at the paper let it slip sometimes. OK, so we might be scuppering ourselves here, they’ll say, but if you start a blog and put ads on up and find yourself a sponsor, you’ll rake it in.

Personally, I’m not convinced.

“Anyway, you live right around the corner, don’t you? You’d just have to go over there for a few hours one evening to see what they’ve done with the place.”

Again I said no. Another thing they know is that I don’t write about hotels I haven’t slept in. It would be like reviewing a restaurant entirely on the strength of the smell of the food being brought out (of course my neighboring columnist, the food critic I share the page with, sometimes writes his “Table Talk” reviews that way: as I sit down at the table, I can tell from the smell alone exactly what they’re cooking up in the kitchen, he told me on an occasion we ran into each other at one of those abysmal office parties that I stopped going to a long time ago. I didn’t like the guy, and I suppose it was mutual).

“Well, don’t let that stop you. You could always go and spend the night there.”

It may have been a joke, but I took it seriously. Sleeping in a hotel room where I could look out the windows and practically see those of my own empty apartment and bedroom — I wasn’t averse to the idea, and maybe for one night the novelty of it would do me good. I’ve gotten tired over the years, and I’ve spent a lot of those years in the same profession. It’s the one I chose, true. And one that I do reasonably well, I think — perhaps better than anyone else, going by what the odd reader will tell me in an email, or even in an old-fashioned, signed-and-sealed, pen-and-ink letter, also forwarded to me from the paper.

The letters are open when they arrive. Apparently, it’s for security reasons; indeed, the word Security is ostentatiously stamped in blue on the middle of the torn envelope. They’re overdoing it a bit, I’d say; I can be harsh sometimes, but I don’t quite deserve a letter bomb. All the same, it’s good that they open them, and even that they read them — if it’s true that they do read them — because that way the editors will know that I’ve still got my readers.

On the other hand, there’s nothing so impressive about doing better than anyone else at a job in which there’s almost no competition. There aren’t very many of us hotel critics left, at least not in the newspapers. The internet is another story: everyone wants to post their opinions, recount the smallest details of their little escapades and even write things that aspire to the status of reviews (I think some of them are stealing my adjectives). That’s no bad thing, I suppose. The reviews, on the other hand, are — they are almost always badly conceived, badly thought out, badly written, by bad people. Or strange people, at least; I like my work, but I wouldn’t do it for free.

In the end, I gave in. Presumably, that’s what the staff at the Imperial were hoping I would do when they tried their luck. They were delighted at the paper; they must have some advertising deal going. As always, they made the reservation under my name. Under my real name, that is — as is also always the case — and not the pseudonym I use for my column. The name on my ID card will throw the sharpest manager or receptionist off the scent and allow me to be just another hotel guest. And that’s why I haven’t let them put a picture of me next to my byline and why I never go to conferences or meetings with other critics. It’s no sacrifice; from what I remember, the critics are as boring as their reviews. Being incognito makes my work easier and — why deny it? — more fun. It gives it a flavor of undercover espionage, makes me feel like a double agent. Or a double-double agent, because nobody is ever who they say they are in hotels, and everyone will take advantage of their stay, albeit unknowingly, to play detective.