NEEDLING

IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

6h21
I arrive early because my colleague covered for me last week. He comes in at 7 pm and leaves at 7 am everyday seven days a week. Last Wednesday I had an appointment at 9 am with my building’s insurance company’s expert for a water-leak damage to my ceiling which happened four months ago. I arrived at 15 till 10. I told him he could come in at whatever time tonight. We talked about Clementine who left a large hairball on a pillow last week. Not only that, she left it on the pillow of a regular client who comes in two to three times a month and always brings other guests with him.
“Mr. So&So, he didn’t know how to tell me,” Kamel says to me, “it was very awkward, he was really embarrassed for me and for the hotel. But he said something in the morning. He didn’t know how to tell me and you could see it was difficult for him, he just didn’t want to complain. A hairball the size of a baseball. He said he put it on the shelf in the bathroom, and I could go up and check it out if I didn’t believe him.”
“Yeah, she had the guts to tell me it was my fault, that I’m responsible for the hotel, that I’m the receptionist, so it’s my fault, that she’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Clementine, you know… I told Mr. So&So he should have told me right away, I would have put him in different room. He said he couldn’t, he knew it wasn’t my fault personally and he was embarrassed to complain about it to me.”
“It’s what’s her name from the other hotel, she came in to talk to Clementine, and she stayed up there more than two hours When those two get together, you can’t get anything out of Clementine. They talk, and talk, and talk… gossiping little twats… those two together are the worse. So Clementine says to me I shouldn’t have let her in the hotel. I say, whadda you mean, she’s a maid in the other hotel, she belongs to the staff, if she has something to tell you how is it my problem? If you’re here and you’re the maid then you’re responsible for the rooms. ‘But she made the bed, not me, it’s your fault, you shouldn’t have let her upstairs.’ ‘Okay,’ I say to her, ‘lets pretend one second I shouldn’t have let her upstairs even though she’s an employee in this company, you mean to tell me you have absolutely no responsibility?’ ‘Yes, it’s not my fault. It’s yours, you shouldn’t have let her upstairs.’ ‘Fine, it’s my fault she went upstairs, but is it me who gossiped with her for two hours and forgot she had breakfast to serve, rooms to clean, et cetera?’ ‘I didn’t talk to her for two hours.’ ‘What did you do upstairs then?’ ‘She helped me with the rooms.’ ‘And so you let her in the rooms, rooms for which you were responsible?’ ‘It’s your fault Francois, you shouldn’t have let her upstairs.’ ‘Okay, fine Clementine, it’s my fault, you’re a thirty four year old woman and you cannot be held responsible in any way whatsoever for what you do or do not do. I shouldn’t have let your colleague upstairs because when I do, you cannot help yourself, you have to gossip at two hundred miles an hour, and you forget your work, and you’re not responsible… Fine, I’ll keep that in mind’ ‘It’s your fault Francois, not mine…’ she kept repeating…”
So me and Kamel discussed this for a little while. Not very interesting conversation so we switched to a more interesting topic. He was telling me how he drove from Paris to Madrid last year, before taking the boat on the coast back to Algeria. He was telling me how beautiful a country Spain is, and how it was good to drive all that way, then to take the boat after a few days of being a tourist, and to find himself home again with his family after crossing that little bit of the Mediterranean sea.

7h15
The boss does an early morning round before going to another hotel. He checks the room occupancy, and heads back out. He’s doing the reception till 12 in an other hotel because his brother, who usually works mornings in this other hotel, is on vacation for the time being.

8h05
Kamel, who has a meeting with a friend this morning, stuck around till now. He just left after I took a breakfast to the third floor, room # 31, a Russian woman in silk pink pyjamas.

8h35
Today’s maid arrives. It’s going to be a long boring day. There’s only eight rooms this morning, and two of them have already checked out. At least I won’t have to fight with anybody to get the payment for a room or a breakfast or a minibar.

9h15
Two roughs looking fellows come in asking for a room. They smell like whiskey the minute they step in the hotel, they don’t even have to approach the front desk. Their clothes look like they’ve spent half their lives jumping trains and living from one cheap scam to next. I tell them we’re full. I feel bad when I do this, but then it saves me from fighting with them in the morning, or for Kamel to call the cops in the middle of the night because they’re having a fiesta and they’re trying to punch holes in the walls. It’s horrible, but we have to judge a person the minute he steps into the hotel. We don’t have a choice. It’s better not to rent a room than to loose regulars because of a fight, or to get a room destroyed or the hotel burnt down. I still feel bad about it. I always do the silly thing of putting myself in their situation and what that must feel like being rejected from one hotel to the next. I’ve been kicked out of hotels before myself, and it makes you feel like the lowest piece of dog shit. That’s life.

10h09
Phone rings.
“Hotel so&so, bonjour.”
“Hello,” the fellow says in slang-like French (thus obviously a French person), “is this a hotel?”
“Yes, it is. How can I help you, sir.”
“Well… uh… actually, I need to ask you something.”
“I’m listening.”
“Is this an English hotel?”
“An English hotel? What do you mean, sir?”
“Well, I called information, and they gave me your number, and they told me you were an English hotel.”
“Look, sir. I’m not sure what exactly you mean by that. We’re a hotel situated in Paris. Paris, as far as I know, is French, though if need be, we do speak English.”
“No, it’s because I’m looking for somebody at your hotel, and she’s English.”
“What’s the name of the person you’re looking for, sir?”
“Well… uhm… it’s that… uh, I’m not sure, except that she’s English. And… yeah… I got her room number.”
“What’s the room number?”
“104.”
“We don’t have a room 104. What’s the name of the person?”
“I… I don’t have her last name, I only have her first name.”
“Well, what’s her first name, then.”
“… uhm… Aura…” he says very unsure of himself… mumbling…
“We don’t have anybody by that name, anyway, I really need a last name, sir. What’s her last name?”
“Isn’t this an English hotel?”
“Look, sir, I don’t think we can help you.”
“Can’t you forward a call to a room?”
“Of course, we can. But for me to forward your call to one of my clients, I need a name.”
“It’s an English girl.”
“You’ve said that, however, if I don’t have a name, I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t simply forward your call to every single room until we find the right one… don’t you think?”
“…”
“I don’t think I can help you this morning, sir.”
“Alright, thank you then.”

10h38
Late twenty something or early thirty something Portuguese couple walk in. No baggage. Just one heavy back-pack. Not heavy enough for travelling, unless they’re travelling real light, which is not impossible. They’re clean looking, clean clothes, polite. They look at the price chart.
“You’re looking for a room for one or two nights?”
“One night.”
“The price is so&so for a big bed and shower.”
They hesitate.
“Tell you what, I’ll throw in breakfast. Normally, breakfast is so much, but I’ll offer it to you.”
They discuss this in Portuguese.
“Okay, we’ll take the room,” the fellow says in perfect French with only a slight accent.

10h56
Young, probably not even 18 or 19 man walks in.
He says (sorry, no way to say this in English) “Je cherche ishtag patique.”
“Pardon?”
He repeats himself, “Ishtag patique.”
Figuring on another crazy person though he looks sane enough, I pretend to look at my name / room chart on the computer. “Sorry, nobody by that name.”
He looks at me as if I’m crazy. We both look at each other as if we’re crazy. Then he pulls out a white folder and opens it. He’s looking for an internship, which is called a ‘stage’ in French.
“Tu cherche un stage pratique!”
“Oui.”
“Sorry, man… there’s no internship position here, I’m sorry....” I felt bad, his accent was so rough I hadn’t understood. “Good luck,” I say as he steps out.

11h32
I’m bored. And so are you, if you’re reading this blog right now.