The Wyndham Hotel Stalker

Last night, by the time I arrived in my room, it was nearly midnight East Coast time. I was tired from the flight and stress of hauling luggage through airports, but there was a long line of women checking in at the hotel front desk. I waited about 20 minutes, and received my room key for a room on the 15th floor. I schlepped my heavy bags through the massive lobby, into the elevators, and down the long hallway to my room, only to discover that there was a mistake: it was a king bed, and I’m supposed to be sharing the room with two other women.

I schlepped all the stuff back downstairs to resolve the mix-up. The solution: keep the room for just one night, since my roommates weren’t arriving until the next morning anyway. I was annoyed, but seduced by the “reduced rate” they offered for my inconvenience. So I schlepped by bags back up to the 15th floor.

I noticed that I had an “adjoining room” and on the other side of the interior door, I could hear three women laughing and talking as clearly as if they were in my room with me. It also took me only a few moments to realize that the air conditioning wasn’t working in my room. I really didn’t want to go back down to the front desk (or haul my stuff to another room). I kept fooling with the thermostat, while listening to the women next store talk about the Phillies. I realized that they were also here for the conference—every woman I’ve seen so far in this hotel is here for the same conference—so as I finally got frustrated with my thermostat, I thought maybe I could just ask them if their adjoining room had any problems with the AC.

I stepped out to the hall and knocked on their door. The noise in their room stopped instantly, but no one answered. I knocked again, and this time they came to the door to look at me through the peephole. They had a quick discussion as to why I would knock on the door, did any of them know me, should they open the door, etc. I could hear EVERY WORD. So I spoke loudly, “I’m in the room next door, and I’m having problems with the AC. I was wondering if you knew what the secret is to the thermostat.” I smiled with great charm at the peephole, but they refused to open the door.

I gave them the benefit of the doubt; I suppose it would be weird to open the door to a stranger, but I don’t think I look threatening, certainly nothing like any serial killer or “wanted” poster, but they had the right to ignore the door. I called their room number on the phone, figuring that was not as “in-your-face” as the door. The phone rang once, and someone picked up the line, then slammed it down into the cradle.

For some reason, that struck me as being an over-reaction. Were we suddenly in a teeny-bopper horror film? All I wanted was a little help, and I following normal social etiquette to ask for it. I gave up on them, hoping they wouldn’t complain to the hotel or ask to switch rooms. I finally figured out the thermostat and went to bed, while they continued their conversation in whispers that I could still hear.