boardrooms and broomsticks

So we have this guest check in a few days ago. The funny thing is that at first, a lot of people thought she was a spotter (someone who comes into the hotel anonymously and grades the hotel’s performance), but we all learned otherwise in the long run. My run-in with Ms Boardroom was rather unique…

The call was transferred to me from the front desk, Martin, I think it was. He said something to the effect of “I’m transferring a guest who needs some typing done…” then he put her through to me.

“Good afternoon, this is the concierge desk speaking, I understand you need some assistance with typing?”

“No, no, I need to send an e-mail.”

“Okay, well, you can do that in the business center here at the concierge desk.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Well, you just have to come down here to the concierge desk and we can…”

Click.

I went about my business.

I knew it was her as soon as I saw her. She was wearing a ruby red sarong and was accompanied by a large black man who seemed to only go by the name “lover.” I braced myself.

“I need you to type three e-mails for me to send to my grandchildren.”

“Okay, Ma’am, if you just want to give me what needs to be sent, I can certainly assist you with that.”

“Well, how does it work?”

I paused for a moment. “It’s easy, you give me the message that you want sent, and then I send it as an e-mail.”

“Where do you type it?”

“Well, right into the message field.”

“What?”

“An e-mail has a message field. I type the message you have there into the message field and then send it to the three addresses you have and then they get the e-mail.”

At this point, “Lover” is wandering bored around the lobby in his African priest garb.

“But,” she asked, “what do I get back?”

“Well, you get the original document back.” Did I use the word 'document'? I doubt it, I'm hardly that professional…

“I don’t understand. Where do you type the message?”

“Into the message field.”

“What?”

“The message field. An e-mail has a message field. I’ll type your message into the message field.”

“And then what do I get back?”

“The original.”

She paused. A heavyset woman in a ruby-red sarong pausing is never a precious sight.

“I don't understand,” she said.

“Neither do I,” I countered.

We both waited for a moment. She was wearing a sarong, I wasn’t. There was no way I’d let her win.

Finally, she relented. “How do I know that they got the message?”

“It's easy,” I explained, “I send the e-mail, and then they receive it. They get the message at that point.”

She wasn’t convinced. "But how do I know?"

I studied her for a moment. A moment more would have been torture. “Lover” was wandering aimlessly about the lobby in his priest garb.“Well, ma’am,” I answered triumphantly, “it’s kind of a Zen thing.”

“What?”

“You don’t necessarily know that they got the e-mail, you just send it and assume that they received it.”

She turned to her right and yelled over to the high priest, “Lover!”

He turned.

“It’s a Zen thing,” she yelled to him.

From across the lobby, “Lover” in his high priest dress shrugged his shoulders.

Ms Boardroom walked away. I was happy about that. Forty-five minutes later she was back at the desk asking an associate if they could send a fax to her three grandchildren.

Apparently Ms Boardroom and “Lover” have no faith in Zen.

back to top