I found the place. Did my research. Read the reviews. Looked at the photos long enough to feel something. Decided this was the one.
I booked direct. Paid the rate. Not the sale rate, not the points rate — the actual rate. I paid it without flinching.
I arrive. The lobby is everything the photos promised. The staff smiles. Someone takes my bags. Someone offers me a drink. The whole routine is running perfectly.
Then I check in.
There is a resort fee. It is $45 a day. It covers the pool, the fitness center, the WiFi, the welcome amenity, and local and domestic long distance calling, which they still list as though I have been waiting my whole life to use the hotel landline.
I can see the pool from where I am standing. It is right there. It was there when I booked. It was there in the photos. Nobody mentioned $45.
I ask what happens if I don’t want the resort fee. The person behind the desk maintains eye contact and explains that it is mandatory. I nod. I sign. I go to my room.
The next morning I go to the fitness center. I have already paid for it.
The fitness center has four treadmills and a wall of mirrors and a basket of apples that I assume are also included although at this point I am not certain of anything.
I swim in the pool. I use the WiFi. I eat the welcome amenity, which is four chocolates arranged on a small plate in the shape of a smile.
At checkout there is a destination fee. It is different from the resort fee. It covers my sense of place.
I am not making that up.
I get home. I think about next year. I think about the rate I paid and the fees I paid and the four chocolates and the landline I did not use and the destination fee that covered my sense of place.
I think about the website that shows me the total before I book. The one that at least tells me what I am spending before I am already there with my bags in the room.
I book through the website.
