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.

So, I was forced to join the realm of regular travelers, those wretched people who actually pay the rates hotels quote. Fortunately, over the years I’ve learned a few tricks of the trade. After comparing dozens of third-party websites (don’t be fooled by creative URLS like cheapsluttyhotels.com, they’re all owned by the same few companies), I chose an inexpensive but well-located and seemingly respectable hotel in South Beach. Yes, yes, I violated my principle of choosing hotels solely based on how cool they make me feel and how impressed friends are when I tell them I stayed there. I chose based on—gasp—price. And location. How could I possibly continue being a hotel snob when I stayed at 2-star hotels? Could the shame and self-loathing get any worse? Yes, apparently.

Something else I've learned is front desk staff are far more susceptible to obsequiousness and subtle manipulation than reservations staff, who are trained to suck every possible dollar out of travelers. So I bypassed central reservations and third-party websites and called the front desk directly—after hours. Sure enough, I secured a better rate and the vague promise of an upgrade.

Upon arrival, I wasn’t surprised when they couldn’t find my reservation. I half-expected it. Fortunately I had printed off my confirmation, another road warrior fundamental. Take that, suckers! Just try and deny my reservation now, try and make me pay double and then charge me for a no-show three months later. To my surprise, they handled the matter efficiently and professionally, albeit in broken Spanglish and without acknowledging the error or apologizing. And the bottle of wine and fruit basket I expected as compensation for the humiliation of lingering in the lobby and risking being spotted by a former colleague never arrived. No matter, I was happy to be staying in South Beach and not paying $500 a night.

After retrieving my key with its stylish plastic yellow tag I made my way to my room, holding my breath all the way—not out of excitement but because the stained hallway carpet promised unspeakable odors. My room, although not the penthouse suite and with no lap pool or fully-stocked bar or butler in sight, was decent in size and reasonably clean. I have an inordinate fear of floral bedspreads, so I was delighted to see a clean white duvet. There was an odor, however, one of those mysterious stenches that refuse to reveal its source no matter how hard you search. I decided it was tolerable and unpacked my suitcase.

That night, after conceding defeat in my efforts to make sense of the two multi-function remotes provided to control only eight channels, I turned out the lights and crawled into bed. Within seconds I felt itchy. Leaping out of bed, I flicked on the lights and yanked the sheets back, scrutinizing the mattress for bedbugs and—a telltale sign—blood spots. I couldn’t find any, but I knew they were there, lurking in cracks and crevices, waiting for the lights to go out to whistle to their friends and march all over me in a cockroach cavalcade. Still, I couldn’t sleep. The slamming of doors, the hooting and hollering, the strange grunting noises kept me up all night. The walls were so thin I might as well have been having a threesome with the couple next door.

Next morning I checked out at 5:30 am to catch my flight home. I had survived. No bug bites, no lice, no robbery or murder, and no $300 mini-bar bill or $45 parking fee. Maybe I had underestimated budget travel.

While in South Beach I checked out a few hotels I wished I stayed at. My recommendations include the 88-room Hotel Victor, which opened in 2005 and is adjacent to the mansion where Gianni Versace was gunned down in 1997. The only caveat is it’s operated by Hyatt, and I’m suspicious of mammoth chains who try to run boutique hotels. The 131-room Setai is also beautiful, although big and resort-like, and I personally refuse to stay in hotels with two or more towers. The refurbished 104-room Raleigh Hotel is part of the Andre Balazs group and has a stunning pool. The 194-room Delano, part of the Morgans Hotel Group, was a pioneer of chic boutique hotels so we have much to be grateful to it for. Lastly, I’m not a fan of the gilded opulence of Ritz Carlton and its “ladies and gentlemen serving ladies and gentlemen” motto, which is better suited for my grandmother (who’s dead), but if the striking modern lobby of the 375-room Ritz Carlton South Beach is any indication of the company’s future, then things are looking up.

Today I'm off to Seattle, so stay tuned for an update on the Emerald City.

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