Be My Guest

Bear With me, Ladies and Jelly-spoons. Give this a once over and lemme know what you think.

Be My guest
The People of the Hilton Garden Inn at Fishkill
By Jessica Manna
June 30, 2010

Potted plants, richly colored furnishings, high ceilings and lots of sunlight catch the eye first. It is pleasantly cool, and the lobby is almost as bright as the smiling face behind the front desk, greeting guests with a warm, “Hello! How can I help you?”

Behind the smile is full time student, nineteen year old Mary Walker. She wears the professional black and white, and not a hair is out of place. I discover that she is a Visual Arts major at Dutchess Community College and she is presently undecided in what she wants to do with her life.

“So the hotel is sort of a waypoint between where you are now, and what you want to do?” I ask, curious.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I needed a job, so I applied to all of the hotels in the area, and the Hilton hired me!” She responds, smiling still. “It’s kind of laid back, and I like sometime, when people are nice to you, knowing that you helped someone out. That you made a difference. Know what I mean?”

Mary helps a guest, directing them confidently up to the Wal-Mart, which is literally two parking-lots and a side street away. The Hilton Garden Inn receives a great deal of out-of-towners, brought into the area by an assortment of occasions. They have already had 9 wedding parties in the house since May began, and on a separate occasion, they hosted an entire tour-bus of Virginian Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“What do you find most challenging, then?” I ask her next.

Without hesitation, Mary answers, “trying to answer the phone that’s ringing before 3 times, having someone on hold AND checking a million people in at once.” She laughs, and as if on queue, the phone rings, and her signature answer: “Thanks for calling the Hilton Garden Inn, this is Mary how may I help you?”

As laid back as Mary tells me it is, there must also be stress involved. Upon further prying, I catch the Manager of Sales, Krista Borerro. She too, is continuing with her education, aiming for her Bachelor’s Degree in English and Literature. And despite her title and the eight years she has spent in the hotel business, she is only a springy 25 years old.

“I started out at the Hampton Inn doing front desk.” Krista begins to tell me. “I worked with a core group for about six or seven years until I came here and we just really had a great time. We would follow each other from place to place.” She smiles brightly.

“Sounds fun, so what’s the challenge in your department?” I ask.

“The stress of dealing with difficult people sometimes.” Krista nods decisively. “[They] basically want something for nothing…you have to constantly make sure that they’re satisfied.” Sighing, she thinks a moment and then adds, “And sometimes the mothers’ of the Brides we get. And Bridezillas.” We both laugh.

“Do you take anything away from this job? Anything that benefits your everyday life, maybe?” I continue my questions.

“[The job] helps me deal with every day situations in dealing with the public, adapting to situations and keeping my cool. It helps me to think ahead. Helps me to be personable and responsible.” Her smile widens before she finishes, “but I also worry a lot too, hoping that everything is going smoothly around me.”

After I ask her what the Hilton Garden Inn’s most prominent traveler is, she responds with a thoughtful expression. “I know that Hilton has a lot of resort hotels, but … I think more of corporate traveler, than let’s say, your leisure or weekends in the area. They want to check in, go upstairs, eat, sleep, maybe have a drink, and then check out at the crack of dawn. But we do get very busy in the summer with weddings in the area, which can be stressful.”

I am reminded of her ‘bridezilla’ comment and I smile, thanking her for her time. And before I depart, I catch the ear of the Executive Housekeeper, Shiela Volli. She’s spent 15 years in this business, starting her career in the Hampton Inn in Newburgh.

She graces me with some time during her cigarette break, and answers between inhales and exhales. Through conversation, I pick out a number of her duties as Executive Housekeeper, and the work load is impressive. Ms. Volli must stock each cart (one per housekeeper, a total of 8 on high volume days) to make sure they have enough shampoos, soaps, and linens. After that she checks each room that was not occupied the previous night to be certain it is clean before the Front desk assigns them to near arrivals. After that is done, hopefully the housekeepers have finished cleaning a few of the rooms from this morning’s checkouts. If so, she checks each of those thoroughly as well. If anything is amiss, she explains it to the housekeeper in question and then continues.

Aside from those day to day duties, Ms. Volli is also responsible for arranging the weekly schedule, doing monthly inventory, politely reminding guests that check out is at noon. She also has rank over the houseman, a fun-kind-of-wacky man who mops and cleans the Lobby area and the halls of each floor.

“It’s stressful. It really is.” She confides in me. “Sometimes I bring it home with me, which just stresses me out at my house.” She takes another drag.

“Do you find yourself checking your own room when you go off on vacation?” I ask, genuinely wondering how influenced she is by the job.

“Oh yeah. There was one place in Vermont that was really bad. Hair on the bathroom floors, garbage behind the dressers.” Ms. Volli nods as she looks at me intently.

“Did you say anything?” I wonder.

“No. No I never say anything. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. That’s not me.” She shakes her head enthusiastically, though smiling as she takes yet another drag.

“What do you like about this job?” I ask, hoping to lift her spirits.

“The staff. We have an excellent staff. Housekeepers, maintenance, front desk, and breakfast, all of us are really great people.” She lists them on her fingers. “We all get along. Everyone gets along.”

This short interlude with the employees at the Hilton Garden Inn at Fishkill reminds me of a book I read once. I had stayed in this exact hotel sometime last year, and had asked if I could pluck it from its usual place beside the bible. It is called “Be My Guest” and was written by Conrad Hilton himself. A quote that seems to infuse this modest 111 roomed hotel is, “live with enthusiasm.”

Mary Walker, Krista Borerro and Shiela Volli all live with a verdant love of life that reflects in their acts towards each guest that walks through the door. Each one of these ladies, though without direct intent, voices the Hilton motto, “Think big…act big…dream big.” In no other place can there be found a brighter, more pleasant group of people.

Late Nights

The hotel is rife with that non-chalant sort of pleasantness. People coming in and out with their own brand of plastic smile. Not that the sentiment isn't received well - we like the manners well enough - but sometimes it's just a bit too fake.

It's a different face, different hair color and eye color, different body type, gender, fashion sense, shoe style, luggage brand, polo shirt, blue-tooth earpiece, touch phone and laptop - but the same smile.

The thing I hate most about it, is that on occasion I find myself doing the same thing. And in cases like that, I have to dissapear to the back room and try to think of something nice.

Most of the times, it's something like, "I'm going home in [x] hours!" or "My Love is waiting for me!" or "I can go play video games later!" Things of that nature usually spark up a real smile. But what gets me a majority of the time are those people that smile back at you for real. Those down-to-earth types that are just happy to be here, out of their houses on vaccation, or on a trip to see friends, or just get a nice room. I know I've said it before, but it does need re-iterating.

Be happy when you go to a hotel. It is contagious. And you've never had service liek that from a happy front desk person. I tell you - It will change your whole experience. And mine too.

Oru

Diluted

Things here just seem to be getting more complicated. And by here, I mean everywhere. But for argument's sake, I will stick with the analogy of the hotel.

For example - Old hotels? They had sets of keys, and you were required to drop the keys back off in order to officially check out. Sometimes breakfast was served. There was housekeepers that made your bed and straightened your towels. Sometimes they may even fold the clothes or vaccum or replace soap and stuff. Front Desk people offered to help and were indeed very helpful beings! They were owned by families and friends, and were often refered to as Inns, or Bed and Breakfasts.

Now? Now we are not liable for items stolen out of your bag. We tell you that smoking is strictly prohibited in this room and that room but not the far room. Breakfast is not complimentary to those who do not have special membership. In fact, Breakfast isn't complimentary unless you special order the breakfast through the reservations, of course. However, if you wanted to become a Gold or Diamond member, you could spend potentially thousands of thousands of dollars travelling in order to amass the points to GET to Gold in order to have breakfast for free. As for the keys? They demagnitize if they are near a cellphone or credit card, and you don't have to bother returning them because they time-out or are doubled. Which means you don't have to come to the front desk OR call down, you can just leave. You know, in case you absolutely obliterated the room.

Not to mention that the GUEST is always right regardless if it makes sense or not, Diamond members get the better rooms first, regardless of allergies. If you book online it's cheaper then actually CALLING here for some reason, and front desk employees are 'discouraged' to take any breaks. At all. Ever. Or sit down. Ever. Or do anything but stand there, look pretty, and pretend to know what you're doing. And of course, the owner of this establishment you never see. You see the manager he elected and the co manager that HE elected. So when you complain do you really think they care? And I of course mean this ont he employee end as well!

My goodness.

I feel this turned into a bit much of a rant instead of an actual comparison, hmm?

Pet Cemetary. Except NOT.

Another day at the Hotel: my new job. Front desk clerk and proud to be a part of the HGI TEAM. I wear my nametage with self-importance, and wield my all-access key card like a champ. Normally, I am in control of my actions. I take my orders, complete them, and stand waiting in the wings for a phone call, a reservation to make, or a complaint to smooth over.

Except there's something very strange today. Today - I wasn't supposed to be in today until noon, well afetr any morning checkout drama were to occur. I was supposed to be a mid-shift cover, a helping hand, not in charge of all of it. And of course - the schedule changed.

As it so often does.

And here I was, 7 am, standing behind the front desk. And a woman comes up to me and says:

"Did you know that there's a dead cat in your parking lot?"

With horror in her eyes.

I blink, confused and say, "What? No, I had no idea! I am so sorry, I'll call animal control -"

"NO." She insists, leaning against the countertop, a slightly frantic gleam to her wide eyes. "it's a kitten. It's EYES were gouged OUT."

I blink again. I almost don't understand what she wants me to do about it. "Oh no, thats horrible!" I manage, honest disgust on my face for the atrocity at hand.

"I know. You should call someone. Thats animal abuse." She nodds, affirming her own belief.
I nodd too. because I know she wants me to. Then she goes off.

Things progress. I ask if the maintenance guy could check it out, see if it looks like it was actually GOUGED or if it was picked at by birds - knowing full well that the eyes are the first thing to go when you're talking roadkill. The maintenance man assures me - some sicko probably did it. Group of jerk kids maybe. Sure. But of course. It would never JUST be roadkill.

My life isn't that simple. So I report it to the police. they say they will send over an officer to check it out.

Then we hear, (the front desk clerk covering breakfast hosting this weekend,) from the phone line. A bizarre, rappid beeping noise. As I check the digital screen, I see "911 call" pop into view and blink. And of course, while this is going on, a man who barely speaks English is trying to convince me that their breakfasts should be complementary. He and his 'coh-leez'. Or then 'coo-leegz'. Which I translate to Colleagues. Because I am apparently a genius.

I discover, after dishing out coupons for no good reason, that it was room 315 that had called 911. The lady who told us to call the police. Which, being the obedient little front desk clerk, I had already reported. And as the 911 dispatched officer strolls into the place, he gives me a sympathetic smile and goes on up to soothe the nerves of the animal rights activist.

Not to say I had no pity for the creature. It was a kitten, after all. Tiny, and skinny, and without eyes. But there's only so much I can do. And I saw nothing happening out there, so I could provide no insight to the events leading up to the feline's demise. There was no unmarked van squealing from the parking lot, masked villains chucking the battered kitten-corpse out of the sliding door. Trust me. I would have noticed.

It's my job.

So after some more phonecalls, (manager, police, manager, front office manager, manager, police (to cancel police), biohazard removal, front office manager and then manager,) I take a breather. The maintenance man and one of the busboys from breakfast go to clean up the deceased in question, and make use of the biohazard baggies supplied to us through whichever hotel supplier we got them from. Then they put the baggie in a box, and the box next to the dumpster. And there it sits.

And when I think it's all over, 315 calls down.

"Hi... is this the girl that came to talk to me before?"

I think a moment, remembering vaguely that the hostess/front desk clerk had gone up to make sure she was all right and try to reason a testimony out of 315. "No, she's actually back in the breakfast lounge, would you like me to get her?"

"No. Are you the manager? Who is the manager?"

In my mind, something twitches. "I'm afraid our General Manager is off the grounds today, is there something I can help you with, Miss.?"

She sighs. elaborately. Everyone who complains at a hotel sighs elaborately. They can't seem to help themselves. It's disgusting. Then she says, "Listen, I just want you to know... it ... well, I know it's someone in your hotel thats doing this."

As if this happened more then once. I reply with a pointed, "I'm sorry, excuse me?"

"...I mean, it had to be someone that KNEW that there were kittens in the dumpster. Right? I mean, you know what I'm saying?" She persisted.

Another something in my mind twitched. Huh. Sounds like SHE knew there were kittens in the dumpster. Isn't that strange? "...I understand miss. Would you like me to forward you to the General Manager's voicemail?"

"No, no. I'lll call ... um, after I leave."

I wait. I feel like she wants to accuse ME outright, simply because I was there. I felt as if she wanted to accuse ALL of us of participating in some horrific pagan ritual when no one was looking. Where we strapped the kitten to an iron cross, put on white hoods, chanted in latin, and ceremoniously removed the eyes. Of course, just before we put on ski masks, hi-jacked an unmarked van, and tore through the HGI parking lot.

After a moment of silence I allowed her to suffer alone, she threw something else in. Just because she felt she had to, "And don't give that guy my room number."

"...Excuse me? who?" I can't stop myself. Who is this woman talking about? The maintenance man who cleaned up the cat? The kitchen busboy that held the bag? The policeman SHE had called?

"...Just... don't give my room number to anyone else." Then she goes silent again. waiting. As if for a confession.

"...Of COURSE not." The tone is decidedly harsher then it should have been, I admit. It was... rougher. Perhaps the insult leaked in and I couldn't bat it away fast enough. Either way it was out. And then she merely told me to have a good one and got off the line.

And that was that.

Dead cats. Always causing trouble.

Oru

Memories Drift

Standing perched on one foot behind the front desk for hours on end often gets my mind turning. I need something to distract me from the way my feet are pulsating from the constant pressure my body pushes down on them. On occasion I will be gifted with a task that involves more movement then mindlessly shifting my weight - but unfortunately those times are few and far between.

So, I think.

I think about things that have held me together. Then I think about how those things inevitably tear me apart. To avoid an onrush of unecessary angst, I will change gears, and dwell on any good spots of light in my darkened little heart. Dispite the row of pristine flourescents being sumarily blown to pieces by an M16, (whose name I try my utmost never to utter again, though fail on occasion,) there are still little runners glowing down the hall, and every hundred feet or so someone will have lit a fire in a barrell, or mounted a wall-sconce to light their way.

I am somewhat of a maze to begin with. And the fact that the lights are out isn't making it easier for anyone else to get to know me. Get close to me, become my friend... And I feel that this is driving a rift between my memories, myself, and the real world surrounding me.

Time for a deep moment. Cover your ears and hum please?

I find myself, every once and a while, craving his voice. I wonder how he's doing and part of me hopes his family is well, and wishes to see them again. I know he doesn't deserve the dirt on my shoes, or the spit in his face, but for being in the light for so long, basking in it, enjoying the warmth... how could I not want it back? After being thrown headfirst into the darkness following the burst of rapid-fire, the shimmer of sparks, and then the inevitable silence?

Think what you want. It happens to everyone. I wish I could taint every memory of him with a doubt, but there were none. I wish I could look back and say, "I should have known. I should have been ready for this. I set myself too high." But everytime I try, I can only think good things, I only hear his laugh.

I wish I could hate him as easily as I have been able to hate other deserving parties in the past. But I am dismayed to see that it isn't as easy as I hoped.

So now my mission is to make new memories. Better ones, ones that outshine the sterile brilliance of an old love. I will break down the walls of this hall and let in the blinding sunlight of a new life, filled with genuine smiles, affection, and ties only to those who won't do me harm.

I've taken the apropriate steps. And now to have it completed.

I have chosen to accept this mission. The only thing - no self destructing message please.

I'm not that kinda gal.

Oru