The doors revolve. They spin you into the wide open space where ceilings vault massively overhead yet echos seem limited, muffled somehow.
People are waiting here, strolling through, standing in groups talking, racing off to somewhere else. Porters wrestles with mounds of luggage. Day or night, there is always some sort of activity here: sometimes there are only a few lonely-seeming individuals, other times it is a thronging morass of arrivals and departures.
There is a large circular desk (with no discernible way in or out) in the middle of the space and the staff inside are constantly fielding questions and arranging bookings. Behind the reception desk, on the far side from the entrance, there is a prodigious stairway leading up to the rest of the Hotel. Off to the left there is a vine-draped archway into a lounge. Off to the right there may or may not be another room, depending on when you visit.
Amidst all this hubbub flits an immaculately-dressed, unfailingly polite, and supremely able person who seems to be in charge of all you see. This is the Concierge: constantly greeting repeat visitors, clarifying staff questions, arranging special requests, coordinating security activity, and occasionally acting as a de-facto neutral party in delicate inter-sphere negotiations. Always here or about 90 seconds from being here. Never seen eating or drinking or sleeping. If the Hotel is a body, the Concierge is, without a doubt, the brain, and the reception desk is the spinal column.
Though the contents of the Hotel seem to change and shift from visit to visit, this space is the constant and unfailing greeting to all who arrive.
People are waiting here, strolling through, standing in groups talking, racing off to somewhere else. Porters wrestles with mounds of luggage. Day or night, there is always some sort of activity here: sometimes there are only a few lonely-seeming individuals, other times it is a thronging morass of arrivals and departures.
There is a large circular desk (with no discernible way in or out) in the middle of the space and the staff inside are constantly fielding questions and arranging bookings. Behind the reception desk, on the far side from the entrance, there is a prodigious stairway leading up to the rest of the Hotel. Off to the left there is a vine-draped archway into a lounge. Off to the right there may or may not be another room, depending on when you visit.
Amidst all this hubbub flits an immaculately-dressed, unfailingly polite, and supremely able person who seems to be in charge of all you see. This is the Concierge: constantly greeting repeat visitors, clarifying staff questions, arranging special requests, coordinating security activity, and occasionally acting as a de-facto neutral party in delicate inter-sphere negotiations. Always here or about 90 seconds from being here. Never seen eating or drinking or sleeping. If the Hotel is a body, the Concierge is, without a doubt, the brain, and the reception desk is the spinal column.
Though the contents of the Hotel seem to change and shift from visit to visit, this space is the constant and unfailing greeting to all who arrive.
Comments
Post a Comment