THE FRENCH HOTEL SURVIVAL GUIDE

ACT I: THE CHECK-IN GAUNTLET

It always starts the same way.

You walk into a French hotel lobby so small it could legally be classified as a drawer. The receptionist is nowhere and everywhere. A bell sits on the counter.

The bell is decorative.
Like the Wi-Fi.
Like the balcony.
Like your belief that someone will appear promptly.

You press it.
Nothing.
You press again.
Nothing.
You press a third time because optimism is a difficult habit to break.

Ding-ding.

Eventually a man emerges from what appears to be a broom closet carrying a mop, a ledger book, and the expression of someone who hadn’t expected to meet another human today.

He whispers “Bonjour,” as if sound waves might collapse the building.

He then hands you:

• A brass key that could double as farm equipment.
• A map of “the corridors” (there are none; this is psychological warfare)
• A Wi-Fi code printed on paper with the structural integrity of a communion wafer

And then the death sentence:

“L’ascenseur… est petit.”

Sir.
All French hotel elevators are petit.
The Eiffel Tower elevator is petite.
My hopes and dreams are petite.
This is not news.

FIELD NOTE 1: ARRIVAL

How to Survive Check-In Without Becoming Part of the Décor

Warning:
If the receptionist whispers anything, assume they know something you don’t and proceed with caution.

Checklist:
• Do not ask about parking.
• Do not ask what time breakfast is.
• Do not ask why the bell didn’t work.

The bell is decorative.
Like the Wi-Fi.
Like the balcony.
Like hope.

ACT II: THE ELEVATOR

You approach the elevator, no, pardon me reader, the vertical coffin designed by a man who clearly hated suitcases and possibly humanity. It opens with the reluctant gasp of an asthmatic accordion.

You squeeze in sideways.
Your bag wedges in diagonally.
Your dignity remains in the lobby.

Capacity:

• You
• Your bag
• The stray thought of a sandwich
(Anything more is illegal.)

The door closes so slowly you begin aging. You catch your reflection in the elevator mirror and think,
“I look like a hostage.”

You press “2,” because allegedly that’s where your room exists.

The elevator rises using the spiritual energy of three underpaid pigeons. The lights flicker. You begin mentally dividing your belongings among loved ones.

You arrive at your floor. Maybe.
The hallway resembles the Overlook Hotel but narrower.
The carpet pattern encourages vertigo and the sconces illuminate exactly nothing.

FIELD NOTE 2: VERTICAL TRANSPORTATION (In Theory)

Objective: Exit without perishing in a velvet-lined coffin with mirrors.

Protocol:

1. Do NOT inhale deeply; this reduces available cubic centimeters.

2. Tilt suitcase at a 37-degree angle to break the curse.

3. Press “open door.”
This is ceremonial. It does nothing.

4. Whisper encouragement to the elevator:
“Come on baby, you can do it.”

5. Exit sideways like a crab.

Note:
If the elevator stalls, sing loudly.
This frightens the ghosts and resets the mechanism.

ACT III: THE ROOM REVEAL

You insert the brass key.
You turn.
Nothing.
You turn again, now with intent.

The door gives up - resentfully.

You enter.

The room is adorable.

Until you drag in your suitcase.

The square footage is optional.

Inside, you find:

• One bed
• One chair
• One lightbulb with the wattage of a tea light
• A window overlooking a courtyard where French men in puffer vests smoke and debate pensions
• A radiator that hisses like an 18th-century duchess in a scandal

You whisper, “Ah! Charming!”
You lie.

Then you spot The Bathroom Door.
Ajar.
Inviting.
Threatening.

FIELD NOTE 3: SPATIAL NEGOTIATION

Objective: Charge your phone and maintain the will to live.

By French hotel law, rooms must contain:

• One (1) outlet
• Unless there are two (1 will be decorative)

This lone outlet is placed somewhere whimsical, often the ceiling.

Charging Techniques:
• Stack chair on suitcase; climb carefully.
• Let phone dangle like a bungee jumper.
• Mutter prayers in two languages.

Safety Note:
If the phone falls on your face, you must shout “MERDE!”
This is cultural integration.

ACT IV: THE SHOWER — A PHYSICS EXPERIMENT GONE WRONG

You open the bathroom door and immediately understand that space is a myth.

This is not a bathroom.
This is an engineering experiment.

The shower is a transparent phone booth, except less roomy.

Attempting entry requires choreography:

• Left shoulder in
• Rotate
• Right leg in
• Rotate
• Pray
• Rotate again
• Accept captivity

The showerhead has two settings only:

1. Apologetic Drizzle

Like a waiter pouring wine for someone who ordered Magret well-done.

2. Fire Department Training Blast

Capable of stripping barnacles off a boat hull.

No middle ground.

Meanwhile, the shower curtain launches a full-body romance campaign, suctioning itself to you like a lover in a drama who can’t take a hint.

You wash yourself in segments, like a budget car wash.

You exit reborn but not in a spiritually uplifting way.

Your towel hangs outside the splash zone, which due to French architecture is also inside the splash zone.

Water: everywhere.
Towel: damp.
Sanity: compromised.

Enter recurring character #1:
THE SHOWER CURTAIN OF NEEDINESS.
It will return.

FIELD NOTE 4: BOUNDARY MANAGEMENT

Objective: Survive the cleansing ritual.

Procedure:

1. Insert one limb.

2. Rotate until stuck.

3. Reverse until freed OR until curtain decides you’re together now.

4. Adjust water pressure one millimeter.
(Warning: triggers avalanche-level force.)

5. Accept steam as a personality trait.

Emergency Protocol:
If trapped, shout “JE SUIS COINCÉ(E)!”
This won’t help.
But tradition is important.

ACT V: THE WI-FI OF BROKEN DREAMS

You open your laptop.

You search for the hotel network.

You find:

Hotel_Montparnasse_Guest_89B_WPA2_Unlimited
Signal Strength: 1 bar
Emotional Stability: 0 bars

You enter the password:

Bienvenue2024!!!123

Incorrect.

You try again.

Incorrect.

You go to the lobby. The receptionist looks at you like you’ve asked for the nuclear launch codes.

“Oh non,” he whispers, horrified by your naïveté.
“That network does not work. You must use… the other network.”

The other network is named:

WeDoNotOfferWiFi

You connect.
It drops.
You reconnect.
It drops again.

Eventually it communicates exclusively in Fax Machine.

Recurring character #2:
THE GHOST IN THE ROUTER.

You accept this as your fate.

FIELD NOTE 5: DIGITAL OPTIMISM

Critical Red Warning:

If the Wi-Fi asks for a 19-character password AND your mother’s maiden name, ABORT MISSION.
This is not authentication.
This is punishment.

Steps:

1. Attempt.

2. Fail.

3. Attempt again out of delusion.

4. Return to reception.

5. Receive a new password written in disappearing ink.

6. Accept your destiny.

Remember:
The Wi-Fi is decorative.
Like the balcony.
Like the elevator mirror.

ACT VI: THE BED THAT MOCKS YOU

It’s midnight.

You lie down on a mattress that is somehow both:

• A medieval punishment device
• And a marshmallow experiencing profound burnout

The pillows form a dysfunctional family:

• Pillow One: fluffy but sullen
• Pillow Two: flat but confrontational
• Pillow Three: decorative but lethal

Outside, a smoker coughs in the courtyard with the vigor of a Victorian chimney sweep.
The radiator begins a full-throated monologue - possibly from Les Misérables -
and grows louder.

Above you, a suitcase rolls across the floor like a dead body being dragged.

You stare at the ceiling and wait for one of you to give in.

FIELD NOTE 6: VISIBILITY IS A PRIVILEGE

Light switches obey no earthly laws.

Possible locations:

• Behind the headboard
• Under the desk
• In the shower
• In a different arrondissement entirely

Troubleshooting:

1. Wave your arms along the walls like you’re summoning spirits.

2. Flip random switches until a light turns on in the courtyard.

3. Accept darkness.

4. Declare: “It’s fine, I didn’t need visibility anyway.”

ACT VII: BREAKFAST — THE FINAL TRIAL

You descend to the breakfast room with the haunted gait of someone who slept inside a radiator soliloquy.

A woman in a cardigan evaluates your soul.
She gestures to the buffet.

Inventory:
• One (1) croissant per person
Guarded with a vigilance usually reserved for national secrets. Taking two requires paperwork.
• Yogurt
Yogurt with a backstory.
• Coffee
Brewed at a strength that could strip paint off a Peugeot.
• Bread
Bread that sighs when cut.

You toast a slice. The toaster has two modes:

1. Not Now

2. Charcoal

It incinerates your toast immediately and ejects it back at you like a burnt telegram from Normandy.

At the next table, a man politely asks for more jam.

He is told simply:

“Non.”

You sit.
You eat.
You endure.

FIELD NOTE 7: ADVANCED EMOTIONAL WORK

Accept what you cannot change:

• The thermostat is myth
• The pillow will betray you
• The radiator has its own agenda.
• You will not sleep before 3 a.m.

Reflect on this, if you must.
Or don’t.
Nothing matters now

FINAL MOMENT — THE GRAND SELF-AWARE REFLECTION

I will book another French hotel.
Of course I will.

Because for all its quirks...

the elevator,

the shower curtain,

the mattress,

and the Wi-Fi...

A tiny, improbable moment when I open the window, inhale courtyard smoke, hear the ghost of a bell tower, and think:

“Yes. This is living.”

Or at least…

“This is content.”