When I go to a hotel, I want to feel like a guest in a good friend's house. I want to be treated nicely and have every whim catered to
Ian Schrager
I like to travel cheap when on business - something about it adds to the sport. Eating a folded pizza slice over a trash can while talking fast beats a long laborious lunch filled with real estate bullshittery. Move like a predator, stay in discount hotels, sell hard. Not that it translates into transaction success, but it feels like I’m at least putting my thumb on the scale.
One of my business partners shares this mentality and once on a Chicago trip he suggested that rather than pay for a (shared) hotel room we could stay with his friend Brad. Brad, he told me, had made a good deal of money but had never married, and had a wonderful brownstone within walking distance of Wrigley Field.
It seemed like a fine idea.
I soon learned that while there was plenty of room, and while the home had luxurious bones, men left to their own devices create uninspired surroundings.
The plan was to drop our bags, have a drink, then a night out in Wrigleyville. Standing in Brad’s grand kitchen, he suggested we have some wine before heading out, and started uncorking a bottle. I asked about glasses and he nodded at the cabinet behind me.
In it I found a treasure trove of 32 ounce plastic Slurpee cups - the extent of his glassware. Ample, and they worked - Brad emptied the bottle with three pours. We moved from the kitchen to the living room, holding our giant plastic cups. Brad motioned for me to sit. The choice of where was easy as there was only one chair - an oversized leather massage recliner with a what appeared to be a breaker box of switches to control vibration and position.
The chair sat alone in the middle of the large room, a room shared only with a wall-mounted television the size of a highway billboard.
Unbothered, Brad sat cross-legged on the floor and continued the conversation as we drank from our oversized plastic vessels. I sat in the chair, fiddling with the switches, and my partner paced around before awkardly lowering himself to the floor.
None of this struck Brad as odd. Why would it - he’d been single for all of his 45 years.
Before heading out, I asked about the restroom’s location and found further evidence of what happens when men have gone feral. The bathroom was clean - no fault there - but in front of the toilet was a pallet of toilet paper, maybe 200 rolls. The plastic shrink wrap was pulled back at the closest corner, allowing the user to remove another roll as needed.
With his towels he took a more frugal approach. Or, better said: with his towel he took a more frugal approach. Brad kept a single towel, from Hampton Inn, draped neatly on the towel bar.
We had a big night out, and like good real estateurs spent far more than our lodging savings on wonderful food and drink.
Returning to Brad’s place I learned how spartan it was. There were three bedrooms but only one was furnished. And by furnished, it had a bed. And a pillow. No headboard, no dresser, no chair, no settee. A bed. A bed comprised of box springs on the floor with a mattress on top.
Wondering how this was going to work, and re-thinking my ideas of traveling cheap, we watched as Brad re-organized the living quarters.
He pulled the mattress to another bedroom, never slowing his discussion of the local real estate market, then tossed the pillow on the bed and let me know this would be my lodging for the night. For my partner, he pushed a few buttons until the recliner went completely flat. As for himself, Brad pulled a sleeping bag from the closet and tossed it on the box springs.
We ended up making a terrific deal in Chicago, eventually putting together a large shopping center development in the suburbs, but the next day was rough. It was winter and one of those gray Chicago days when getting warm never happens. I think it was because I was the last one to shower and the Hampton Inn towel no longer worked.
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...when men have gone feral.....literally just snorted my coffee all over my desk :)