Dear Hoteliers: I’m Tired, Not Difficult. Here’s Why Your Check-In Drains Me.
1) It takes too long—and I can’t see why.
I’ve already booked, paid, and told you when I’d arrive. I’m standing there while someone types for minutes on end. If there’s a reason (system lag, room not ready), say it in one sentence. Otherwise, it feels like ritual for ritual’s sake.
Worse, the tone in those minutes shifts from “welcome” to “comply.” The posture, the script, the silence—it’s bureaucratic. I’m not being greeted; I’m being processed.
2) You make me repeat information you already have.
You—or your booking partner—got my name, address, email, phone, and preferences. Then you hand me a form or tablet asking for the same fields again. I’m not your data-entry clerk. Pre-fill it. Let me confirm, not retype.
When you ask again, here’s the message I hear: your systems don’t talk to each other, and I’m the patch cable.
3) You don’t look prepared for my arrival.
It starts with a search for my reservation, like I’m a surprise walk-in. I gave you my ETA. While you scroll and click, I have time to think: What if my booking isn’t there? Where do I sleep tonight? You didn’t cause the delay, but you did create the anxiety.
Welcoming means being ready. If I’m expected, it shouldn’t look like a treasure hunt on a screen.
4) You ask for a card and a deposit—again.
You already took my card to guarantee the room. Now you want it again “for incidentals,” with a hold I won’t see released for days. I get why you do it, but the feeling is clear: you don’t trust me with a coffee, a Coke, or a towel.
Say what you’re doing and why in plain language—and for the love of travel, don’t make me feel like a flight risk.
5) Then comes the talk.
House rules, breakfast times, pool hours, Wi-Fi, parking, local tips… delivered at the worst possible moment. I’ve been traveling. My brain is done. I’m not listening; I just want the room.
It’s not that I don’t care—I can’t absorb it. Give me a concise card or message to read later. Right now, your monologue turns welcome into overwhelm.
What good looks like (to me):
From lobby to elevator in under 60 seconds. If you need more time for any reason, give me a reason and a drink voucher. Otherwise, hand me the key (or let my phone be the key) and send a short message with the essentials. That’s it.
The Conclusion You Don’t Want but Need
In five minutes at your front desk, you’ve told me four things, loudly:
- You make me nervous (can’t find my reservation).
- You make me wait (and won’t explain why).
- You don’t trust me (pre-charges and deposits, again).
- You overwhelm me (a speech I can’t absorb).
That’s the mood I carry into the room. Not the scent, not the design, not the view—that. Your team may be kind, but the process is cold. The first impression isn’t hospitality; it’s authority.
I didn’t come for a procedure. I came to be welcomed.
Please welcome me. Don’t process me.
