Those of you who know me will know I am a Marriott maven. I regularly amass a bazillion points and have achieved platinum status. Alas, that’s not the top-most tier (you have to stay 75 nights a year to get to titanium and stay 100 nights plus spend at least $25,000 US to reach ambassador), but it does afford some perks, including free breakfast and an automatic room upgrade. My tactic is to book a room one level below the one I want and it mostly never fails.
Anyhow, that’s why I was at the JW Marriott resort in St. Maarten for a few days. It’s a little off the beaten path on a private swath of beach. Like many such hotels, it used to be something else (a Westin), which had apparently languished in a sorry state for several years after being ravaged by hurricane Irma. Marriott eventually swooped in and renovated extensively, with the new hotel opening last year.
The hotel was indeed lovely, decorated in muted sand-and-sea tones. But it was eerily deserted. I saw virtually nobody in the lobby and wide hallways. Kind of like one of those creepy movies where you find out what appears to be luxury resort in a tropical location is really a colony on Mars within a dome that simulates a terrestrial paradise. Even the disembodied elevator voice was so reminiscent of Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey I was expecting him to tell me he was not going to let the elevator doors open.
The room, however, was top notch and the upgrade to a oceanfront location with a private plunge pool was a nice touch (even though it was not heated and the gale-force winds turned it into a wave pool). And the restaurant proved that other humans (I think) were indeed staying there.
I then embarked on a sailing cruise that was not part of a simulation (or maybe it was a very, very good simulation) before returning to the Marriott for a final day. Once again, the lobby was devoid of anyone other than a single desk clerk. Thankfully, she did not bat an eye at providing check-in at ten in the morning and confirmed that I had been upgraded. She handed me my room key and directed me to take the elevator to the third floor. A floor that could not possibly have a private plunge pool. When I politely pointed this out to her, she said it was the busy season and none were available, but I was still getting a beachfront room.
I accepted my lesser lot in life (considering it would be just for one night) and proceeded to the third floor. I walked several thousand steps through a maze of (deserted) hallways and arrived at a room accessed via a set of double doors, which opened into a wide, tiled hallway, which led to an enormous living room, dining room, kitchen, etc. A suite. I can’t figure out why the desk staff didn’t tell me my upgrade was a suite when I was clearly disappointed that I wasn’t getting a pool. Perhaps her operating system needed upgrading.
As has happened to me alarmingly frequently, I spent slightly more than 24 hours in my spacious accommodation. Barely enough time to turn on all the TVs, sit on all the couches, and see what’s behind the myriad kitchen cupboard doors. But that’s definitely a first world problem. And I’m grateful that I am (pretty sure) indeed in this world and not on Mars.