What It Would Take to Get Me To Pay $4k a Night for a Hotel

I am not unfamiliar with the concept of a luxury hotel. I am also aware that hotels on the beach in Florida are pricey as all hell. I am not entirely a beautiful naive sophisticated newborn baby (despite what my betrothed would say), so the fact that there are incredibly expensive hotel rooms out there is not a shock or unfathomable or anything. It does make me feel a little ill, to be honest, or at least the concept of paying for such a hotel does – I am an accountant, after all, and cost/benefit analysis is as hard-wired into my psyche (accountants are born, not made – if someone likes to learn about rules and is the first one to read them when a new boardgame is brought out, you’d probably make an excellent accountant. Which after reading that makes accountants sound boring as hell, which isn’t always true, but accounting itself really is pretty boring when you get right down to it.) as love of steak and distrust of yellow squash. I can’t wrap my head around paying 10 times as much for something simply for the fact that I can afford it when a suitable alternative provides the same function. I get nauseous.

So when I was told about a hotel I won’t mention by name called The Breakers in Palm Beach and the fact that on a particular weekend the cheapest – i.e. least expensive – room would cast $4,100 per night, I almost puked. I was exhausted at the time, nearly asleep, but the mere knowledge that a night’s lodging would cost the same as 4 months of payments on a $200,000 mortgage had me sitting upright and spewing forth such noxious language that I had to calm myself by calculating MACRS depreciation schedules on a variety of commonly-purchased corporate assets so I could fall asleep.

OK, that’s not true. I don’t like accounting that much.

I did, however, decide to think about all the things I would need in order to justify spending four thousand one hundred American dollars per night for a single room – A ROOM, NOT A SUITE OF ROOMS, BUT A ROOM THAT HOLDS A COUCH A BED A DRESSER HARDLY ANYONE EVER USES AS ANYTHING BUT A COUNTERTOP AND A TV AND POSSIBLY BUT NOT ALWAYS A COFFEE MAKER AND POSSIBLY BUT NOT ALWAYS FREE WI-FI PLUS A BATHROOM WHICH IS TECHNICALLY A SECOND ROOM BUT FOR THE SAKE OF ARGUMENT WE WILL CONTINUE TO CALL THIS A SINGLE ROOM – and so, with somewhat less ado than I normally use here on my blog, here is the list of things I would require to spend an amount of money that is JUST SHY OF THE MONTHLY AVERAGE WAGE OF AN AMERICAN HOUSEHOLD IN 2013 for a single night of sleeping in a strange bed out of the elements:

  • A coffee maker. By which I mean a barista who does nothing but wait for me to decide I want coffee and will swiftly and wordlessly hand me whatever kind of coffee I want at that moment. Also, does not look like a hipster.
"It's NOT A FEDORA! Philistine."

“It’s NOT A FEDORA! Philistine.”

  • Maid service that goes to my house while I’m staying in the hotel and cleans everything, including lawnwork and car detailing.
  • A masseuse that gives me a footrub every night until I fall asleep.
  • Complimentary teeth whitening. And I don’t mean strips or anything like that, a dentist that will whiten my teeth while I sleep and THEY BETTER NOT WAKE ME UP WHILE THEY DO IT.
  • No less than 4 poor orphans that I can point and laugh at.
  • A crown.
Screw it, I want the orb and scepter too.

Actually, I want the orb and scepter too.

  • A throne so the poor orphans can petition me for favors or food or justice and I can scoff and send them to the stocks.
  • Someone to carry me to the bathroom. In fact, someone who carries me everywhere as long as I am a guest.
  • A free go-cart. Not while I stay, but given to me forever upon checkout.
  • A private en-suite chef with a soundproof kitchen to serve me breakfast in bed.
  • Pillows and duvet stuffed with freshly-plucked goose down that is replaced daily and the prior days’ pillows and duvet are burned. All work to be done by poor orphans who must also watch the items burn until the ashes are cold before being permitted to do anything else.
  • A private beach. So private that no one else – guests, staff, Google Earth, no one – is permitted to be there or see it. The staff member who directs me to it will be blinded afterwards.
  • The couch, upon checkout, will be shipped and placed in my home before I arrive.
  • An elegant white Borzoi with a personal poop scooper. Also, another, lesser dog to serve as the Borzoi’s fetching surrogate.
Oh, are you unfamiliar with the Borzoi? You must not be a member of the Russian aristocracy.

Oh, are you unfamiliar with the Borzoi? You must not be a member of the Russian aristocracy.

  • A year’s supply of the hotel’s soap and shampoo.
  • A functional laser gun.
  • A reclining toilet.
  • Cashmere robe and slippers. In fact, an entire wardrobe made of nothing but cashmere, including pants, belt, socks, and coats in varying lengths and styles.
  • A $50,000 interest-free loan with no set repayment date.
  • Complimentary Lil Sebastian.
  • An appearance by James Franco nightly so that I may cast dispersions on his character. He is required to weep at the conclusion of the berating.
  • Lunch with the celebrity, living or dead, of my choice. Dead celebrities must be alive and in the prime of their careers.
  • The room must be gutted and destroyed upon checkout so that no other human being can experience the stay in the exact same way that I did.
  • A Groupon for $4,000 off per night’s stay.

Then – AND ONLY THEN – would I consider staying at a hotel that charges $4,100 a night as IT’S CHEAPEST ALTERNATIVE. That’s fucking insane.

About Alan Edwards

Former cancer caregiver. Husband of the most magical and amazing person who ever lived.

Posted on January 19, 2015, in Rantin' and Bitchin', Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. Epic, sir, EPIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Count the !s, I dare ya!). All but the part where you describe how boring accounting is, because…well, it’s true, and I now I hate myself. Thanks.

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