It was immediately apparent to me that the woman who was checking me in to the hotel was marginally pleasant only because it was required by her job description. It was also clear that if she saw me bleeding in the parking lot after her shift that she would step over me to get home in time for ”Survivor.”
She had been trying to check me in for 20 minutes, staunchly maintaining that there was no reservation for me. “I called an hour ago to confirm it,” I said. She shook her head and said, “I don’t know who you talked to.”
“I talked to you,” I told her. “Is there another Clothilde here?” She ignored me and I handed her the printout of my confirmation. “Check again,” I told her, “It’s ‘Andrews’ – A—N—D…”
She stopped me. “You spell ‘Andrews’ with an ‘A’? I was using an ‘O’.”
“The name,” I said through clenched teeth, “is Andrews. Not Ondrews.” She thought for a moment. “Are you American?” she asked. “You talk kind of funny.”
Clothilde checked my photo ID and confirmed that I would be alone, and I asked for two room keys because I always lose one of them. “Why do you need two if you’re going to be alone?” she said, handing me just one key. Before I left I requested a wake-up call and she said, “Last name?”
Shaking my head, I made my way to the elevator and to room 602. Because I spend several nights of every week on the road, I have certain rituals that I follow. First thing when I get to my room I hang the “Do Not Disturb” sign , then I throw my wallet and cell phone on the desk and then I go to get a bucket of ice.
Now, ice bucket in hand I heard the door slam behind me and realized, too late, that my room key was on the desk. Cursing silently, I went back to Clothilde and explained that I had locked my key in the room and needed another, and, anticipating her question, repeated my last name. “No problem,” she said, “may I see a photo ID?” I explained that my wallet was in the room and she said, “I can’t let you in without an ID. It’s for your own protection,” she added.
“I understand,” I said evenly, “but you just checked my ID 5 minutes ago.” She ignored me, picked up the phone, dialed, waited, and hung up. “I’m sorry,” she said, “no one is answering in 602.”
“Of course not,” I responded a little louder than I intended. “That’s because I am here.” Clothilde thought for a bit and decided to escort me to my room, use her passkey to gain entry and check my ID there.
Outside room 602 she said, “Sorry, I can’t open this door,” and pointed to the “Do Not Disturb” sign. Resisting a strong urge to physically pick her up and use her to beat the door open, I said, “I’m calling the cops and telling them you have unlawfully seized my personal possessions.” Wonder of wonders, my Hail Mary play worked, which was great since my cell phone was also locked in the room.
Once inside, feeling smug, I got my wallet and showed her my ID. She looked at it, said “Thank you,” and left, never noticing that I showed her the back of my voter’s registration card — which shows neither my name nor my photo. As I locked my door I felt much safer knowing Clothilde was protecting me.