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<Please note, this guest is neither elderly nor foreign, speaks perfect english. He does not seem to be drunk nor stoned, he's just dumb.>
It's another Friday night in downtown Victoria; The temperature is perfect, the air is clear, the junkies haven't started coming down yet, and the drunks are screaming at each other while pissing over every damn thing that doesn't move.
I'm waiting for my last reservation to show up. I get a call, my guest is at the wrong location. Fair enough, it happens, we have several locations in town. My counterpart at a location about 15 blocks from here confirms that the guest's reservation is for my location, and sends him on his way with detailed directions.
Half an hour goes by.
I get a call from another location, same guest, same story. Only this time, he went 30 blocks in the wrong direction. That's when I know I've got a winner.
Surprise: He shows up in a cab! My location is on the main street, and the closest to downtown. The cab driver took him to two wrong addresses, neither of them on either the correct street, nor part of town.
I retract my suspicions of guest being a moron. I would suspect the cabbie of trying to scam an out-of-towner, but I clearly heard him tell my guest that he wasn't charging him. Instead, I now suspect the cabbie of being stoned out of his goddamn mind.
I start checking guest in, and ask him to fill out his registration only to be met with *exaggerated sigh* and catbuttface.
Yes, princess, you have to fill out your address. 30 seconds of your time, the world is such a burden, blah blah blah.
Turns out, my earlier suspicious were completely justified as my guest fills in his street address, then stares blankly at the spot for "city."
"I don't live in the city, I live out in the country side***," he explains to me, then writes down the city name (which he spelled incorrectly) anyway.
He draws a second blank on 'province' and has to check his driver's license, (issued 3.5 years ago btw, meaning in theory he's been at that same address for at least that long.)
Finally, he gives me a full 8 seconds of "Durrrrrr...." as his mental defences are absolutely crushed by the overwhelming amibiguity of the 'postal code' challenge, despite the fact he his holding his driver's license, with his full address, including postal code, in his hand. "I give up" he says, and I tell him not to worry about it, and just give him his keys.
"First floor, to your left," I tell him. We're on the first floor. He goes right, then takes the stairs. I figure I'll find him in the parking lot, curled up in the fetal position, crying his eyes out, in a few hours. That, or several months from now, maintenance, acting on complaints of the stench, will find his dessicated corpse in the air ducts.
2 minutes later he emerges from the elevator, and, by what I can only assume is an accident, manages to find his room.
***As it happens. I grew up in the countryside. My address still included the nearest city. What it did not include was a street address, which this guy apparantly had. Out of curiosity, I looked up his address on google maps. He lives in the heart of a suburb of one of the largest Cities in Canada.
Crazy Guy Bonus:
We've got this guest who's been here for about 2 weeks now. I don't know what his story is, but he's up all night using the guest computer in the lobby, with at least 2 trips down to the convenience store every hour.
Every 4-5 days, he checks out, comes back less than half an hour later, and checks back in for another 4-5 days, but wants a different room.
Earlier today, we repainted part of the first floor hallway. Consequently, it smells faintly like wet paint. Crazy guy emerges from his lair at the crack of midnight, takes a deep whiff, and comes to the front desk to confide in me that someone's been smoking a lot of weed in the hallways.
Half an hour later, he notices a couple of motorcycles in the parking lot. Both heavy-duty brand new touring bikes. One a BMW, the other a Harley. Crazy guy immediately storms back in to alert me that this is proof positive that not only are Hell's Angels members staying in the hotel, but it also means they have or will muscle out the owner and run this place as a front.
"Great," I tell him, "Maybe they'll give me a raise."
It's another Friday night in downtown Victoria; The temperature is perfect, the air is clear, the junkies haven't started coming down yet, and the drunks are screaming at each other while pissing over every damn thing that doesn't move.
I'm waiting for my last reservation to show up. I get a call, my guest is at the wrong location. Fair enough, it happens, we have several locations in town. My counterpart at a location about 15 blocks from here confirms that the guest's reservation is for my location, and sends him on his way with detailed directions.
Half an hour goes by.
I get a call from another location, same guest, same story. Only this time, he went 30 blocks in the wrong direction. That's when I know I've got a winner.
Surprise: He shows up in a cab! My location is on the main street, and the closest to downtown. The cab driver took him to two wrong addresses, neither of them on either the correct street, nor part of town.
I retract my suspicions of guest being a moron. I would suspect the cabbie of trying to scam an out-of-towner, but I clearly heard him tell my guest that he wasn't charging him. Instead, I now suspect the cabbie of being stoned out of his goddamn mind.
I start checking guest in, and ask him to fill out his registration only to be met with *exaggerated sigh* and catbuttface.
Yes, princess, you have to fill out your address. 30 seconds of your time, the world is such a burden, blah blah blah.
Turns out, my earlier suspicious were completely justified as my guest fills in his street address, then stares blankly at the spot for "city."
"I don't live in the city, I live out in the country side***," he explains to me, then writes down the city name (which he spelled incorrectly) anyway.
He draws a second blank on 'province' and has to check his driver's license, (issued 3.5 years ago btw, meaning in theory he's been at that same address for at least that long.)
Finally, he gives me a full 8 seconds of "Durrrrrr...." as his mental defences are absolutely crushed by the overwhelming amibiguity of the 'postal code' challenge, despite the fact he his holding his driver's license, with his full address, including postal code, in his hand. "I give up" he says, and I tell him not to worry about it, and just give him his keys.
"First floor, to your left," I tell him. We're on the first floor. He goes right, then takes the stairs. I figure I'll find him in the parking lot, curled up in the fetal position, crying his eyes out, in a few hours. That, or several months from now, maintenance, acting on complaints of the stench, will find his dessicated corpse in the air ducts.
2 minutes later he emerges from the elevator, and, by what I can only assume is an accident, manages to find his room.
***As it happens. I grew up in the countryside. My address still included the nearest city. What it did not include was a street address, which this guy apparantly had. Out of curiosity, I looked up his address on google maps. He lives in the heart of a suburb of one of the largest Cities in Canada.
Crazy Guy Bonus:
We've got this guest who's been here for about 2 weeks now. I don't know what his story is, but he's up all night using the guest computer in the lobby, with at least 2 trips down to the convenience store every hour.
Every 4-5 days, he checks out, comes back less than half an hour later, and checks back in for another 4-5 days, but wants a different room.
Earlier today, we repainted part of the first floor hallway. Consequently, it smells faintly like wet paint. Crazy guy emerges from his lair at the crack of midnight, takes a deep whiff, and comes to the front desk to confide in me that someone's been smoking a lot of weed in the hallways.
Half an hour later, he notices a couple of motorcycles in the parking lot. Both heavy-duty brand new touring bikes. One a BMW, the other a Harley. Crazy guy immediately storms back in to alert me that this is proof positive that not only are Hell's Angels members staying in the hotel, but it also means they have or will muscle out the owner and run this place as a front.
"Great," I tell him, "Maybe they'll give me a raise."
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