I love good customer service. I really think it matters. I'll be loyal for it; I'll pay more for it.
I've
written before about how much I love the
hotel where I'm staying in Seattle. I love the robes, the bathtub, the desk chair, the
countertops, the
tv, the beds, the
turndown chocolates, and -- most of all -- I love the alarm clocks. Seriously, they have the most pleasant alarm clock I've ever used.
Tonight, the hotel is running a big fashion show with a project runway alum, so the lobby was slammed with beautiful people when I arrived. Unfortunately, they all needed same elevator that I did (the only one that is currently in service). They also kept bumping the wrong buttons, so the elevator kept going up and down, skipping my floor a couple of times. Finally, they all got out, a hotel employee got in and the elevator headed to my floor. I made small talk with the employee during which I casually, offhandedly, with no ulterior motive, mentioned that I'd been taken for a few rides on the elevator. Now, I'm guessing that my travel-weary face (especially as seen in contrast to aforementioned beautiful people) made her think I was more than slightly
annoyed by this. I hadn't told her my name or my room number. But, lo and behold, a bottle of wine and a
written apology just turned up at my door.
I love this hotel.