In a vacuum, the W Hotel's in-house pampering locale, Bliss Spa, is a fantastic place to get a pedicure. But Bliss is not in a vacuum; it is in the W. And the W and I need to have a few words, mostly about potential signage and very bad behavior of valets, known to me now and forever more as Valet Jerks.
First of all, W, you need some signs--big ones--that say, "Yes, Ma'am, You Will Pay Us Five Bucks To Valet Your Busted-Up Jeep No Matter Where You Park It Within 60 Miles Of This Property." In lieu of these signs, I suggest telling your young, strapping valets not to address bewildered, lost little pedicure-seekers who have parked their cars on the street outside by saying, "Let me have your keys."
Secondly, dear W, I suggest somewhere posting a sign that says, "This Way To Bliss Spa, Dimwit," since I just can't infer that "16--WET" means that's where the pool, and therefore the spa, is located.
Once inside the refreshingly non-pretentious safe haven of Bliss, however, I have absolutely no criticisms. The staff was friendly, down-to-earth and incredibly helpful. Vinnie, my pedi-technician, didn't make fun of my scary toes or the sad little remnants of six months' worth of blue toenail polish desperately clinging to the nails. And I got to watch two whole episodes of The Simple Life with my little headphones and my not-so-little personal television while Vinnie scraped away at my poor, abused tootsies. The man practically gave me a new set of feet, and for that I thank him.
However, that new set of feet was less than pleased to be forced to walk across a length of dusty gravel in order to retrieve my valet ticket and keys. I shuffled up to the valet stand and started to hand the guy my ticket; he gave me a blank stare before gesturing behind him and saying, "You see that window?" Yes, Valet Jerk, I do see that window. And in front of that window is a whole lot of gravel and two potted plants. It does not look like a trail guests are meant to navigate, which is why, Valet Jerk, I handed you my valet ticket since that is, as I understand it, part of your job.
Look, I'm not the classiest of broads, but I know how some things are supposed to work. At posh hotels, you don't make people with pretty red toes walk, in pretty pink high heels, across gravel to shovel out five bucks to get the keys to their car (parked roughly 15 feet away) so that they may hand those keys to a valet so he can drive the car 15 feet back to the owner of said car and keys.
And, no, I didn't tip him. --Andrea Grimes
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