This year we are spending Christmas in a motorhome and my husband is horrified
No one loves hotels more than I do, and their special hold on my heart began with Christmas. Specifically, the New York Plaza in 1992, when I was eight years old. Imagine a family, in the biggest suite imaginable, in the middle of which sits the biggest Christmas tree, surrounded by a frankly grotesque pile of perfectly wrapped presents.
Not mine (although I wished and prayed), but Kevin McCallister is in the movie Home Alone Two. I love hotels since that first viewing with glasses. And the decadent delegation of responsibility that comes with checking in has only grown over time.
I, as an adult, would spend 364 days of the year ordering room service if she could. But at Christmas? Absolutely, definitely not. Why? Four reasons.
Listen, I understand. The prospect of absolving yourself from making the bed and basting the turkey seems… tempting. Stop for a moment, however, and think.
Hotels will likely operate with reduced staff on the big day. And unless you’re Scrooge reincarnated, you’ll feel compelled to tip extravagantly to those who have been torn from their families, in order to wait for yours. Essentially, you run the risk of getting a lesser experience, at a higher price. It’s like choosing Valentine’s Day to visit a fabulous restaurant.
And what happens in the days and hours after the big meal, when you know you really shouldn’t, but you’re feeling peckish? You are linked to the menu. Paying through the nose for fine dining when what you really crave – in fact, the real Christmas culinary attraction – is beyond your reach. Leftovers from the fridge.