Room at the inn

The young Army doctor, our primary care physician many years ago, was chatting with me about child-rearing. My two were then 8 and 10. I said they sometimes lit my too-short fuse and I overreacted, speaking to them more harshly than I should. But if I thought I had been wrong, I was flexible enough to apologize to them. That’s good, the doctor said. But, he added, it’s much better not to do it in the first place.

Stacey, my daughter, now well past her then-age of 10, drove down from Michigan last week with her two sons and the family dog, to spend spring break with me. The first 7 hours of the trip brought them to an inn in southern Kentucky where the family has stayed many times over the last twelve years. It is owned by a university and staffed mostly by students. I, having also stayed there several times, can vouch for the fact that it is a pleasant place. It has a nice restaurant, spacious rooms, is generally clean and attractive, and the student workers who seem to run everything are usually cheerful and helpful. Not so this time.

My daughter and her crew arrived, with a reservation, at 1:30 a.m. The uncharacteristically glum desk clerk directed them to a room in the separate section with outside entrances, where travelers with pets are housed. When Stacey opened the room door, she was shocked. The room was not cleaned, with one bed so unmade that she first thought someone was still asleep in it.

Back at the front desk, the clerk assured her that the room was indeed clean and ready for occupancy. His computer told him so. Eventually he went with her to the room, glancing in casually from the doorway and agreeing that, yes, the room really was uncleaned and the bed unmade. No, he could not shift the group to another room; the inn was full. He brought clean sheets, and Stacey stripped and remade the dirty bed herself, discovering in the process that he had not brought clean pillow cases. Nor clean towels to replace the dirty ones scattered on the dirty bathroom floor.

She got her own pillow from the car, and emptied the full waste baskets. There was nothing she could do about the hair in the bathtub or the general uncleanliness of the room. Before giving up for what little remained of the night, she walked the dog. During the walk, she observed an arriving family enter a room a few doors down and could see through the open door that the room was ready for occupancy. The desk clerk, when confronted again, insisted that his earlier assertion that there was no room at the inn was correct; that couple had a reservation. So did Stacey and family, and they had arrived first, but that evidently had not mattered.

After a less than restful few hours, the mood was somewhat brightened at checkout by two young female students now running the front desk. They were appalled at what had happened, apologized profusely, and said that all charges were canceled. The dirty room was at least free, even if the memory of it would be forever tainted by visions of an unmade bed, a hairy bathtub, overflowing wastebaskets, general filth, and used towels on the floor.

It’s a pretty sure bet that, after twelve years of multiple overnight visits there, my daughter and her family are unlikely ever to stay at that particular inn again. It’s pretty sure that I won’t, either. Compassionate staff members and sincere apologies can soothe feelings, but they don’t change facts.

When I learned of this night of horrors, I was furious. I tend to get that way when somebody does my children wrong, even if my children are no longer children. I also get pretty mad at the idea of anybody, relative or not, being so poorly served by an organization whose central purpose is to offer hospitality. I was glad to learn that this particular episode was tempered by an apology. But I also remembered the young doctor’s admonition: An apology for wrongdoing is good, but it’s much better not to do wrong in the first place.

This story was originally published April 7, 2017 at 5:22 PM with the headline "Room at the inn."