The Golden Rule of Hospitality

“Welcome! …Do you have a booking?” The words come out of my mouth more as a memorised mantra than a genuine question. Although not like when people ask you in passing if you’re alright. No, this one is more believable. There is a genuine need for an answer to it. And yet, very often, the guest will assume that by standing in front of me, I’ll already know the reason for them being there.

The people in front of me do not seem to notice the difference in my tone. They giggle, saying their last name at the same time. Then giggle even more at their own connection. Yes, they’re in love. They’re a newly married couple, boasting a honeymoon smile as big as the trained one I offered them before. Theirs is genuine. They’re happy to be here. It’s their special trip, after all.

The suitcase looks new. A black hardshell suitcase without any dents — that’s something you don’t see often. A remnant of the plastic wrap still holding on to the button that collapses the handle. And on top of it all, a luggage tag with their names and personal information carefully written. This took time. There was a moment of careful writing and application behind that tag, I realise.

Though I doubt I’d have the honour of being in their thoughts much once they’ve checked out, I want to believe this part of their experience would indeed be special. That’s my job, after all. Well, special to them, at least.

To me, it would be as special as the other 100 check-ins I did that day. But they don’t know that; they couldn’t possibly imagine it. They will hardly care, in any case, so no point in spilling it for them.

I explained the ABCs of the hotel, the schedules, activities, and asked them another automated question. “Do you have any questions?” or “Is there anything else I can do for you today?” are my go-to ones. The latter takes the pun for me.

Though I’ve learned to reserve my dark humour for my off-work hours rather than saying what is truly on my mind, my thoughts do wander away. What if I were to verbalise what I’m thinking? I’d probably ask if they would like me to repeat everything I’ve just explained in detail, only to be forgotten again within five minutes. Or, simply, if they admit there is indeed something I could do for them, there are a couple of wrong answers I automatically think of. I don’t mean to say them out loud, of course. But I can feel the intrusive thoughts creeping in, urging me to break them free.

“Then you could ask someone else. I’ve already given you that information,” would be my first thought. Or, “please think about the answer before asking something I’ve already explained.” Or how about, “I’m done for today. I’m sorry. Have a nice stay.”

Sometimes those intrusive thoughts make me giggle a bit, but I make sure to keep it a secret. At times, even a guilty smile will slip out, and I worry the guests in front of me might think I’m laughing at them. Well, in a way, I guess I am. But not at them per se. Not at their clothes or the way they move with that holiday air, as I like to call it. As if they’re floating to the reception, somehow still dragging a 20 kg suitcase behind them. No, I giggle at the scene my mind decided to create in a worryingly short time.

The whole exchange was already playing out censor-free in my head. Only this time it didn’t stay there. I didn’t even notice it. Caught up in that amusing scene, I’d completely forgotten what I was doing or who was in front of me. But it’s too late now. The thoughts have come out of my mouth nevertheless.

Once I finally stop talking, I see how their faces have changed. Almost as if they’re moving in slow motion. I realise then I’ve said the words out loud. They simply stare back at me, shocked. I blush, horrified at breaking the golden rule of hospitality. But there’s no taking it back now. The whole exchange went from ultra-polite to plain mockery in a literal blink of an eye.

I didn’t mean to offend them, of course. But that’s the problem with the truth: it’s hard to disguise as a joke when said with genuineness. Sometimes I wonder how I’ve survived in hospitality for so long with my recurrent intrusive thoughts and this craving to verbalise my opinions.

I can already picture it. A negative review highlighting how the girl at the front desk was rude to them — impacting my performance numbers directly. Maybe even the word “discrimination” will be used; we all know it has more impact when we use it. And it’s all registered nowadays; it’ll be clear it’s me they’re referring to. These days, every click I make has my name imprinted on it.

So I’ve genuinely wasted my time giving them a wonderful check-in experience, just to stain it all at the end. Simply self-sabotage! I say, stomping my hands on the desk. The newlyweds are long gone by now. Not sure how long I’ve been daydreaming on my own there.

Within a week, my imaginary scene had become reality.

The day after the review was published, I got called into the Management Office. To the fifth floor. The one I’ve only been to when I got lost looking for the stock room. It’s the end, I realise. I haven’t even been working for the hotel for that long to dare to expect forgiveness. I’ve broken the golden rule. It’s done. Politeness above all, always be of assistance, and go beyond the guests’ needs — well, I guess there are three golden rules, actually.

It’s a bit annoying that two thirds of that golden rule were left untouched, though. I was doing so well; I drift off again. Throughout the whole exchange, they were smiling while still floating, as they shared with me the completely unnecessary details of their wedding and holiday plans, I remember. The amount of unnecessary comments I struggled so hard to keep in, and that’s what comes out.

I doubt they would even remember me in a month, if I’m honest. But they remember me enough now to comment on my check-in. If only my intrusive thoughts would’ve stayed where they ought to — capped, covered, jailed behind an anxiety firewall. It’s getting harder to keep them within their borders lately, now I come to think about it.

These past years, I’ve heard more and more from those little voices inside, urging me to let them wander off. You know, the ones that show up so suddenly and explosively that you dissociate for a moment.

It takes me more than a second to remind myself where I am these days. To remember that I can’t simply blurt whatever comes into my head to the person in front of me. Even to remind myself that I am at work, sometimes. And to remember that not everyone will understand. It’s quite exhausting, actually.

And somehow it feels harder every month. Keeping this façade. But then again, in a way, working at a front desk is, in its entirety, a façade to be kept. You’ve been doing it for years, though, I keep telling myself when my self-loathing clashes with my struggle to keep up with the role.

“Come in.” A voice on the other side of the door calls me out of my train of thought — more like an avalanche of them.

“You know why you’re here,” the manager says, getting straight to the point, looking up for just a second before returning his gaze to the folder in front of me. I imagine it’s my folder. I wonder what’s in it.

I appreciate his honesty, I realise. Honesty is what I appreciate the most, actually. And, well, it’s what got me into this pickle to start with. I guess sometimes we have to keep it to ourselves. But it’s hard to know when and with whom. More like, it’s getting harder to tell the difference lately. Well, this is definitely one of those moments.

“What happened?” he continues.

“I made a bad joke,” I confess, starting a fascinating recount of the moment. The level of unnecessary detail I manage to keep frustrates me. If only I had been paying that same amount of attention in that moment, I wouldn’t be about to lose my job. How is it that I cannot remember to keep my intrusive thoughts inside among strangers, yet somehow I remember the time, room number, outfit, and brand of the suitcase from the newly married couple in front of me?

“Why would you say that?” he asks plainly, looking at me, startled.

“It just came out,” I explain apologetically. “It seemed a funny thing to say at the moment,” I add, knowing I have nothing else to lose now. I’m so annoyed at myself, if I’m being honest. “Of course you are,” the voice comes again, reminding me why I am about to get fired from a job I actually liked.

Well, liked might be a stretch. The job was easy; that’s more like it. But the company I did like. The pay was finally decent. Decent as in more than minimum wage, not like a fortune. But, you know, we work with what we have.

And the benefits. That’s the bit I’m more heartbroken about. Their health cover is surprisingly extensive. And I’ve been making sure to take advantage of all the company benefits I could since I started here. I even managed to finally book an appointment a few months back with a psychiatrist.

Took me long enough. The appointment is due at the end of the month. I can definitely not afford it now that I’m about to get fired. How could I be so careless? Self-loathing comes back, but it gets interrupted when I hear my name.

“Is it clear?” he asks again. I wish I knew what I’ve been asked about. I could be honest and admit that I wasn’t paying attention. But we now know that this urge for transparency doesn’t work out all that well for me.

I simply stare back, in silence. My boss squints at me, making a funny face while at it, and I can see he’s wondering if I’m mocking him. If only he knew I don’t have it in me to mock people. It’s just the intrusive thoughts. They’re funny, and they want the spotlight. But this time I make a conscious effort not to say it.

With all the mental energy I can amass, I make a monstrous effort not to speak. Which also means I cannot come up with something else to say that would suit these interactions. Agh, it’s so hard sometimes to read social cues. I thought I had them all figured out by now. But every now and then something like this happens. And it annoys me, because the other half of the time I know I’m great at my job. Well, I was, I realise.

“Don’t pull something like that again, am I clear?” My boss pulls me out of the daunting process of keeping myself present, trying not to disrespect him. But I want to know what I am agreeing to.

“Am I not fired, then?” I ask. More like I blurt it out. I want to understand what I am supposed to actually remember.

“No,” he repeats himself, as if I were deaf on top of everything. “Just don’t do it again. I’m serious,” he adds with a hint of annoyance.

I nod and say thank you, as I’ve learned it’s the right thing to say in instances like this one. I turn around and close the door behind me.

Outside, I stop, wondering what just happened. Feeling as confused as I was before I came in. I walk to the lift.

I press the ground floor button. The doors open, and I go back to work.