Chicago was lovely, thank you. It is such an engaging and interesting city, full of good food, neat neighborhoods, and unbridled Bears Fever. Alas, I returned to piles and chaos at work and am only just surfacing.
What was not so lovely, however, was the W Lakeshore Hotel. I've stayed at Ws a few times in the past, and have enjoyed them very much. Plush room decor, comfy beds, and lovely spa products in the bathrooms make for a delightful stay. This particular link in the chain promised lake views, a fully equipped exercise room, and superlative attention to detail.
Apparently, though, the details to which the W attended did not extend to such niceties as ensuring that guests might be able to see and hear and navigate during their stays at the hotel. I should pause here to state, for the record, that the staff was uniformly wonderful, and not one of my many complaints involved an interpersonal exchange. Nevertheless, the professional and courteous staff could do little to overcome the logistical hurdles the W has thrown in their - and our - paths.
I knew something was wrong the moment I arrived, when I couldn't figure out how to get from the cab to the lobby. The doors were set at an odd angle, in a wall of glass, and it was only after nearly walking into a pane or two that I found the ones that opened.
I passed through a second set of doors into . . . darkness. And Very Loud Music. I looked around for my colleague, who had proceeded to the elevators before he realized that I was lost in the dark and afraid to move. He backtracked to rescue me, and guided me to the elevator. Where we discovered . . . darkness. And Even Louder Music.
Upon disembarking from the elevator, we found ourselves in more darkness. A hallway, to be precise, illuminated only by dim, red lights mounted along the walls. Somehow, we found our meeting room, and stumbled into the blessed light. I did not make much of a first impression on my fellow faculty members, I'm afraid, given that I was blinking and shaking and doing my level best to reorient myself.
Eventually, I had to return to Satan's Hotel Lobby to check myself in. I mentioned to the receptionist that the loudness and darkness were rather extreme, and made it very challenging to navigate for a person with visual and hearing disabilities, such as myself. She was kind and apologetic. Whatever.
I found my way back into the Discovator, which took me to my red-lit floor. I felt my way along the hall to my room, fumbled with my key, and entered. More fumbling led me to a light switch, which provided barely enough useful light for me to move into the main portion of the room. The furnishings were quite nice, in typical W fashion, and the bathroom did, indeed, offer some lovely lemon-sage spa products. What the room lacked, however, was light. A condition exacerbated by the fact that three of the scant available fixtures had burnt-out bulbs.
I found the phone, and dialed the front desk. Nothing happened. I tried the room service line. Nothing. I listened again, and realized I had no dial tone. So there I was, stuck in a dark room, with a non-functional phone, and a tummy crying out for dinner (it was after 9:00 p.m., by the way).
Taking a deep breath and girding my loins for a challenge, I made my way back into the hall. It took me three tries to find the elevators, and then two elevators passed before I could figure out which one was open and descending. When I managed to get myself in the elevator, I was again bombarded by techno music. Not what my mood dictated, I assure you.
Back at the front desk, the ever-courteous clerk was hospitable and apologetic. She promised to have lights and phone fixed immediately, and placed my room service order for me. She also paid for my dinner, which I didn't realize until it came (upon which discovery, I promptly regretted ordering only the paltry cheese plate).
The next morning, I discovered that the light over the shower didn't work. I also realized that the light over the bathroom mirror worked, but created so much glare that I could barely see myself. Hoping for the best, makeup-wise, I stepped out into the hallway, which apparently remained dark and red-lit at all hours, to ensure that guests didn't miss the disco effect. (Later that day, the hotel staff fixed my shower light. It promptly died again, and required another fix. That one worked, just in time for me to check out. The promised additional room lighting never arrived.)
The elevators made no allowance for sleepiness. Even at 7:00 in the morning, they greeted me with an ear-splitting techno beat and lighting so dim that guests regularly bumped into one another as they entered what appeared to be an empty compartment.
The "upside" of these auditory and visual annoyances was that it irked everyone. At first, I felt like an uptight loser, who couldn't enjoy a hotel with a bit of a punk-rock attitude. It only took me a day to realize that none of the other guests were feeling it, either, and complaining about the hotel occupied quite a bit of our break time during the conference. Somehow, knowing that it wasn't just me, with my lousy eyes and ears, made it all easier to bear.
In addition to the lighting issues and the incessant music, we had to contend with meeting rooms that were either freezing cold or sauna hot, excessive charges for just about everything, and really crummy coffee. The fully equipped exercise room was nicely outfitted, but so dimly lit that I was afraid to move, for fear of tripping over a bench or machine.
But, again, the staff was delightful. Perhaps they stay chipper due to the sheer entertainment value of watching people flail around in their infernal hotel.
