Pajama Game
Sometimes life is stranger than art. Such an evening was the one Hunnybear and I had last night, starting with the short drive from our apartment to the brand-new W Hotel at Fourth and Seneca. We packed for a week and took the car so that we could sleep as late as possible (i.e., 5:15 a.m.) the next morning. The carriage entrance for the W was on Seneca St.—there’s nothing in front of the Hotel but an enormous bus stop. Fourth Avenue is pretty much one long bus stop. We pulled up and three other cars were just kind of waiting around but not pulling into the drive. I finally weaved through them and stopped in front or the valet area.
Our first impression of W service, unfortunately, was not good. The valet Ahmed, who was probably older than the 14 he looked, spoke in a very quiet voice with a thick Middle-Eastern accent. “Nuttle nuttle gromish?” he asked. I figured, how many possible things could he be saying? “We’re checking in,” I replied. “Nuttle nuttle grimish gromish luggage?” he probed further. “Yes. Yes. We have luggage.” He then looked around bemused, then he disappeared into the hotel. Hunnybear and I started hefting our luggage out of the car as hotel staff in smart black uniforms stood and watched. Then Ahmed came back out, wheeled a hand truck over and put our luggage on it. He wheeled our luggage three feet into the hotel, plonked it right down in the middle, and said, “Nuttle nuttle gromish help with luggage.” He was about to wander off, so I asked if I could have a ticket. He handed it to me. “Would you like my last name?” I asked. I watched as he copied it down.
Like the W New York, the lobby is stark and hip with loud music playing. Everything is black and glass. The curved reception desk is staffed by bouncing young clerks dressed in black. There’s no Starwood Preferred Guest line, in fact no line of any kind, just kind of a free-for-all. But as I approach, one of the clerks frees up, a 25-year-old Asian girl, and I approach, greeted by a big smile. “Where’s the Starwood Preferred Guest line?” I ask. She throws her hands up in the air and says, smiling, “I am!” I tell her my name, but she can’t hear the beginning of end of it because of the loud music, so I spell it: L-I-O-N. She says she needs my American Express card, so I give it to her. I don’t sign anything. She takes out a cool pen that writes calligraphy with silver ink and writes down a room number on a black envelope the size of a card key. Slipping the key inside, she hands it to me: room 701.
“How many floors does the hotel have?” I asked. “Twenty-five right now,” she says. Maybe they're planning to add more later. I ask if it would be possible to get a room on a higher floor because I’m a Starwood Gold and it’s a Free Friday. I don’t know what one has to do with the other, but people like reasons. She fiddles around for awhile, says apologetically several times that they are fully booked, and proceeds to move us to room 1701. As we part, she says her name is Diana and to let her know if we need anything. A nice check-in experience although somewhat reminiscent of shopping at The Gap.
By this time a bellman has glommed onto our luggage and follows us up to our room. The room is very, very nice. There is a plush window seat running the length of the exterior wall, a luxurious king feather bed and lacquered black furniture accented by black-framed black-and-white photographs of Seattle. Our bellman shows us the features of the room. The cordless phone reaches 15 floors. The other phone has a button labeled “Whatever Whenever,” which apparently is the W equivalent of “Service Express.” You press that button for anything at all. There is a snack and soft drink bar, but as is becoming more and more frequent, no alcoholic beverages in the mini-bar. There is a video player and a CD player. If I want a video and they don’t have it, they’ll go out and buy it for us! I didn’t have occasion to test the claim, but it was pretty cool. I tipped Royce, the bellman, $5, and he beamed as if no one had ever tipped him before.
OK, here’s the kicker. On the bed are two pairs of pajamas with a discreet W embroidered on them. Next to them are an invitation to a pajama party on the second floor starting at 8 p.m. Apparently we have inadvertently been moved into a canceled room of someone who was invited to this party. It’s all very confusing, and we wonder if it’s something Starwood is putting on for some of its best customers, where we would fit right in, or if it’s some private party where we’ll stick out like a sore thumb and everyone else knows one another. I try to get information out of Royce and the concierge, but they don’t really know anything except that it’s very fancy and exclusive. We are intrigued and try to decide whether or not to go. The concierge says hey, if you got invited by mistake, put those pajamas on and go for it because it’s supposed to be incredible. Hmm.
Meanwhile, we have tickets to the Mariners game at the new ballpark named after an insurance company. They paid the Mariners $40 million dollars to name the ballpark after themselves, but they didn’t pay me anything so I just call it “the new ballpark.” It’s about a 20-minute walk straight down Fourth Ave. to the park, and we arrive a bit late. Hunnybear’s coworker is there waiting with our tickets, which are in section 345. This is my third game in the new ballpark and there really aren’t any bad seats, so even up in the top deck behind the left-field foul line, it’s a pleasing sight to see the freshly cut grass under the stars. The rest of the ballpark is not so pleasant an experience. Long lines are everywhere, making it undesirable to buy refreshments and difficult just to walk around. Signage is poor—the entrance to our section said “344 & 346.” We finally went in and discovered that yes, 345 was in there too. We stayed for a couple innings then walked back.
When we got back to the W, we poked our heads into the second-floor ballroom and—wow! People were walking around carrying iridescent green martinis and wearing pajamas and blue paper fezzes, which ladies were handing out at the front door. We decided to go for it, went up and changed, and came down in pajamas and fezzes. The mystery of the party was finally solved: it was a party being thrown by Nordstrom celebrating their new line of—get this—lingerie. Guests were designers, artists, and some of Nordstrom’s best customers. In the center of the room were models displaying—ahem—the wares. A fabulous band with two guitars, three fiddles, two drummers, and a keyboard entertained us through the night, and the seafood buffet was absolutely amazing. If this is the same food they serve downstairs at the hotel restaurant, Earth and Ocean, I’ll definitely be back to try dinner there. The green martinis turned out to be “emerald drops” made with Belvedere vodka and Midori. Halfway through her second one, Hunnybear declared that they are officially as dangerous as the Peach Kamikazes at Cutters.
It turned out there were two ladies we knew at the party—in the “best customers” category I think—so we felt more comfortable and had a great time. We even got our photo taken in a big bed outside the ballroom. We left just before the homemade ice cream came out (no good could come of that), went upstairs, and hit the Whatever Whenever button for an ungodly 5:15 wakeup call. As in the Westin La Cantera in San Antonio, they suggested a follow-up call fifteen minutes later. Nice touch.
The wakeup call came as promised the next morning. “I’m not getting up,” said Hunnybear. “This bed has an even bigger tractor beam than the other one.” Get up we did, though, and Hunnybear hit the Whatever Whenever button to ask for our car. We saved the remainder of the Aveda shampoo (man, does that Aveda soap bar smell good) and headed out. Checkout was much less hectic than checkin, although we experienced the famous “charged the secret Starwood rate for Free Fridays” phenomenon I have heard about from other FlyerTalkers. They took it off with no problem, though, and we ended up paying only $30 for parking, movie (10 Things I Hate About You, not bad) and a local call (85¢ flat rate).
A flight at dawn
We made the beautiful dawn drive to the airport with the top down and got to the MasterPark lot in 16 minutes. We got my favorite shuttle driver who was bright and cheery and didn’t let us touch our luggage. Once again I tipped him $5. I just love great service.
We are second in the First Class/100K line, but only one agent is taking customers because the other one’s computer is rebooting. Meanwhile, a dude in the peon’s checkin section is standing up on the luggage scale waving his arms and asking if anyone else is here for our flight, the 7:15 to Chicago. But he doesn’t turn around and look our way! “This flight is closed,” he declares. I go up to the agent who is rebooting her computer and she suggests I go tell him, so I trot down to his station and do so. He is very nice (turns out to be a Canadian) and checks us in immediately. I tell him to be sure and put the orange priority tags on our bags because in Toronto they actually pay attention to them. Then in unison, he and I both say, “unlike in Seattle.”
I noticed something new for SEA checkin: men in blue suits with walkie-talkies are monitoring all phases of the checkin and boarding process. One asked if all the people in our line were full-fare FC or 1K (it’s amazing how many people stand in the wrong line), then came down to where we were waiting for the train to the North Satellite and said something into his walkie-talkie about the train arriving or not arriving. Another was in the jetway reporting on the length of the line. I’m hoping this is United’s response to persistent problems with handling the morning crush of customers in Seattle. Nice to see they care.
There is no line to check in, but once we get into the jetway it takes about five minutes to get to the plane behind the 30 or so people waiting there. Ideally they would board these things through two doors, but I’ve never seen that with a 757. Next best is what they do, boarding by the door between coach and FC. I love stepping onto the plane and turning left. We get our coffee quickly and take off on time, although the ground agent came onto the plane and made repeated announcements for people to sit down. His tone of voice said, “I’ve had it up to here with you unruly customers.” I think Saturday mornings have a lot of infrequent flyers because of the weekend specials and e-fares.
Breakfast was “sampler #2.” I asked what was on that but Marjorie, the stewardess, said I ought to know because I flew so much. She went and told me and it was very good: a little wedge of Montecristo (grilled ham and cheese), a chicken sausage, some home fries, a broiled tomato, and a fruit plate. Hunnybear is going to email Sheila Lukens for the recipe. Service was average for this type of flight, which is to say pretty good, although veteran Marjorie was a little bit crusty at first, saying her paycheck was a little light and complaining about the 10% over six years the FA union had negotiated for them instead of ownership. I pulled out one of my million-dollar-bill business cards, folded it up like a tip, and slipped it to her saying, “here’s a little something to supplement your income.” She actually blushed and wouldn’t take it until I unrolled it and showed her it was a million. “Wouldn’t it be nice if this was real,” she sighed.
The movie was Tea with Mussolini, a pretty good film but not really my taste. After a round of hot towels, we landed on time in concourse C. Nice flight.
The monitor said our connection to Toronto was at gate E2A, a first for me. Concourse E is where Air Canada’s flights leave from but this is a UA plane. I ask the customer-service agent about it and she says that United is taking over Concourse E but right now it sucks because there’s no Red Carpet Club over there. We ensconce ourselves in the closest RCC, at one end of Concourse B, and perform dueling laptops. I do my traditional thing of asking if there is any food, but in Chicago they don’t put the food out at lunch time “because people eat too much.” Great way to cut costs, United… only put food out when people aren’t hungry. Instead, take a cue from Air Canada whose Maple Leaf Lounges put RCC to shame.
Next: A short hop to Why-Why-Zed
[This message has been edited by QuietLion (edited 09-18-1999).]