Hotel Motel Holiday Poop
November 12th, 2022
TW: detailed description of fecal matter, not for the faint of heart.
The customer matters! By customer matters I do not mean that they are always right. On the contrary, they are usually ridiculously in the wrong and have no fucking clue what they are talking about.
I have not had the best work experiences in the past. Then again, I have a philosophy degree; no further comments necessary. My last job in Utrecht was in a pizzeria where my boss was either in the mafia or just did a lot of coke. (I’m Italian so I can use the stereotype). Either way, the man was probably a criminal, but I got paid so I stuck around. After three years of studying in the Netherlands, and a stark decline in my vitamin D levels and mental health, I needed a change of scenery. I have always wanted to learn Spanish and Barcelona was calling my name.
I moved at the beginning of September, and was shocked by the realization that at the age of 22, you are expected to function as an actual adult. In simple terms, that means I had to get a house, a job, my documents, my insurance, my social security, and not burst into tears every time I had to make a phone call. Oh, and all of this in a language that I do not know. It’s safe to say that I definitely did cry a couple times on the phone.
Luckily, I got a job almost immediately. A huge thing I could finally stop worrying about - I will not starve! Better yet, it was a job as a hostel receptionist - a beacon of light shining down from the clouded heavens. My parents own a hostel, I’m international and sociable, there was nothing that could go wrong!
She was an innocent little girl, my past self. Wrapped up as she was in her doubts about her own abilities, she failed to forget the one crucial fact about hospitality and customer service: You do not matter! Along with the complementary: The customer matters!
By customer matters I do not mean that they are always right. On the contrary, they are usually ridiculously in the wrong and have no fucking clue what they are talking about. What I mean is that your experience will be entirely dictated by the type of people they are. They matter because you can have a great time or be utterly miserable, and it will only depend on whoever walks through the door.
Of course, I also had another psycho for a boss. She was even more crazy than she was racist, and the first day she gave me a thorough, far from PC lecture on the dangers of certain “kinds” of people.
But I got the hang of it. I tuned her out, and began making my own judgments on our guests. Do they want to chat or not? What vibe do they give off? What recommendations should I give them? Will they mix well with the other guests? Or could they cause trouble? Is this annoying white guy being condescending because he’s tired from traveling or because I’m just the dumb receptionist? (Trick question! It’s because I’m a woman!)
I have to assess them constantly. When you have ten strangers sleeping in the same room under your responsibility, you cannot afford to be too lenient, and utilitarian ethics will prevail. My goal is to keep the most number of people satisfied.
This is Barcelona, and people who are staying at a hostel, often are coming for the night life. I spend my early morning hours babysitting drunk guests and, occasionally, de-escalating their aggressive interactions. It can get a little scary, and the police have been called a couple times. I figured that was the worst it could get. Rowdy people get loud and obnoxious and I have to sort out their mess.
Just make sure you use a lot of bleach.
And then one morning I was met with a different kind of mess. A woman came downstairs, “The bathroom is a bit… dirty…”
I gave her my best smile, “Well the cleaner doesn’t get here for a few hours, but I’ll go take a look.” I can take out the trash or wipe down the sink if I have to.
Unfortunately I was not prepared for the sight that I was about to witness. Nor the smell. I opened the door and was quite literally punched in the face by the stench of warm sewage. It took me a moment to understand what I was looking at. In one of the stalls, next to the toilet, sat a huge pile of shit. Not satisfied quite yet, that shit had been stepped in, and tracked all over the entire bathroom floor. And finally, perhaps with the desire that their work would last the passage of time, the unknown artist decided to let the whole thing dry, not saying a word to anyone, so that by the time I came to contemplate this creation, it had hardened and solidified to the floor. No windows, no ventilation, it was one big steaming masterpiece.
What did I do? As a fresh entrant to the club of grown-ups, I did what any self-respecting adult would do and called my mother. Dread submerged all other thoughts as she confirmed what I knew all too well but was refusing to admit. “I’m sorry honey,” she said. “But you can’t just leave it like that…”
First things first, I made a little sign and put it on the bathroom door: “Please do not use.” It was either that or, “Whoever shat on the floor, confess to your crime immediately.” Then I began gathering up my cleaning supplies, grabbing anything that could remotely be of use: sprays, trash bags, bleach, paper towels, mop… I could not find gloves… Yet I persisted, wrapping two trash bags around my hands. It did not grant the most mobility, but at least I was protected. Oh - also I cried a little.
And then, dear reader, I did what I had to do. I got down on my hands and knees and I scrubbed every inch of that floor, sweating buckets and only breathing through my mouth. Disregarding the sign on the door, a few guests tried to enter. One whiff and they would retreat in terror. Some would throw me a glance of pity, to which I responded with a salute, as the brave soldier I am. One girl just looked at me, “How long is this going to take?”
At this I could only laugh, “Probably a lot less if you want to help?”
She didn’t find my answer funny. Bitch.
It took me a few rounds. I scooped whatever was scoopable, but the rest was unyielding. So I began to spray with every product I had so as to soften it as much as possible. I scoured that damn floor and finally the poop started to break free, coming off in now half mushy chunks. Then I mopped the whole bathroom with soapy water and bleach, thrice. And then I showered the whole room with air freshener.
Only when I was done did I call my boss. I explained what had happened and how I had dealt with it, just so she was aware. I expected her to be furious. Who was the culprit who had desecrated her establishment? Why had nobody said anything earlier, before the muck had dried, making it near impossible to clean? I was ready for her shouts through the speaker but they never came. She was surprisingly, eerily, calm. “Just make sure you use a lot of bleach,” she said.
This must not have been the first time.
The next day I had pulled myself together. I had told the whole story to my friends and managed to laugh about it. I went to work feeling stronger than ever. I was invincible.
But my still unidentified little delinquent was going to have the last laugh.
The service that takes care of the hostel’s laundry was having issues. Their delivery was late, and we did not have enough clean linen for that day’s check ins. So I had to go through the big bag of dirty sheets in search of pillow cases that we could manually wash and dry. And yes, you guessed it. I blindly put my hand into the bag, and I pulled out a pair of bed sheets that were also covered in shit.
My best guess is somebody was really fucked up, not feeling well, and soiled the bed. Then they ran to the bathroom where, in their panic and confusion, they somehow missed the toilet bowl. Or maybe the mess in the bathroom came first, then the bed. Maybe they stepped in their own turds, maybe it was someone else who tried going to the toilet later, and got a nasty surprise.
I will never know what actually happened that night. But what I do know is that if being an adult means dealing with all kinds of shit, I must be kinda nailing it.
