Hospitality is Broken

I was checking into a Courtyard in Florida, week eight of a stretch that has another twelve weeks to go. I don't drink the tap water in this part of the state. Much of Florida draws from underground limestone aquifers, and even at low parts-per-million the sulfur comes through as that rotten-egg taste that makes you reconsider dehydration as the better option. So I look forward to the two bottles of water that are supposed to be waiting in the room. They get forgotten more of

There were storage containers in the parking lot when I pulled in. A row of them, the kind that eliminate any hope of swinging in and finding a comfortable spot. I noted them the way you clock a delayed flight on the departures board. You already know how the day is going.

The breakfast attendant was seated in the corner just outside the serving area, scrolling her phone. I approached with my bowl of corn flakes and asked about milk. She looked up. "Waiting on the truck." No apology. No offer of an alternative. Just a statement of fact, delivered in a tone that told me she'd said this before. Then her eyes went back to her phone. My initial read: reasonable. Things run out. Deliveries get delayed. Grace is appropriate. But standing there holdin

There was a time when walking into a hotel felt like arriving somewhere. Staff greeted you by name. Housekeeping arrived without being summoned. The lobby had a pulse. Now? Even mid tier properties feel like self storage units with beds. The industry talks endlessly about "guest experience," but what they're actually delivering is a product: shelter, barely personalized, maximum efficiency. This isn't hospitality. This is inventory management. After hundreds of stays, I've le