South Beach Hotels: Oh How the Mighty Have Fallen

Since I left my job four weeks ago to focus on writing, the transition from hotel manager to, well, unemployed loser has been challenging at times. I’ve gone through all the stages of grief: denial (“I didn’t quit. It’s all a terrible misunderstanding.”); anger (“What in God's name was I thinking?”); bargaining (“But I could do odd jobs in housekeeping”); depression (“Nobody even cares if I get up in the morning.”); and, finally, acceptance (“Sleeping in is fun!”). But my freefall in status has never been more apparent than last week when I overnighted in Miami after a cruise. (Okay, so it hasn’t been all bad).

In my past life I would have refused to stay anywhere but one of the hot luxury hotels in South Beach. I would contact my counterpart to request an industry rate, and any savings would be offset by reckless spending on drinks, lavish dinners and prostitutes. (Kidding about that last part, just exercising my new freedom as a non-hotel manager).

But as I picked up the phone to call the GM of Hotel Victor it struck me that I was no longer entitled to an industry rate. To introduce myself as a “former hotel manager” just wouldn’t carry the same weight. I considered saying I was a writer of hotel murder mysteries but I knew how I would have reacted: “Who the f**k cares?” If I said I was contemplating setting my next mystery in his hotel maybe he'd offer to comp the room. But no, I could never compromise my artistic integrity that way. Maybe for a two-week stay, but not for one night.