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Room Service

Published on 12/11/17 in Reading

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Room Service 6













It might happen...

When travelling, one is bound to be surprised.  Once I visited a country that had embarked on what was a tremendous momentum of development, with everything functioning in a perfect way, except that its inhabitants didn’t speak English and rarely smiled. To make matters worse, my cellular refused to connect me to either Rome or Athens. The young lady at the hotel reception did her best to help me, but the problem wasn’t resolved. I tenuously insisted on her finding a solution, to which she responded by insisting that I contact my mobile telephony provider. When I did manage to contact the company, however, I couldn’t understand a word because the automated options menu I kept encountering didn’t indicate anything in English. In the end, I gave up and I went to my room to sleep. It was almost midnight and after having a heavy dinner based on the local cuisine, even a glance at the little chocolate on my pillow was not at all welcoming.

Room service 4 4As I needed a pair of scissors, I called the maid who, unable to understand my request, told me to address myself to reception. Fearing what she thought would be another charade about my cellular phone problems, the young lady at the reception, seeing that it was me calling, chose not to answer the phone. So, I called Room Service.

“A pair of scissors, please”, I asked.

“Scissors?” the voice on the other end repeated, wishing to be sure of my request.

“Yes, scissors, please”, I answered in clear and exact English.

I waited for something like ten…twenty…thirty minutes and finally, someone knocked at the door. I opened it and in front of me I saw a rolling table covered with an impeccable white, linen tablecloth, silver plated cutlery, a basket with all sorts of little rolls, another basket with fruit, a bottle of white wine as a complimentary gift on my arrival at the hotel, a crystal wine glass and, in the middle of all these, a Caesar salad served on a pure, white porcelain dinner plate.

Amazed, I watched the waiter push the rolling table and leave it in the middle of the room.

“Scissors?” I said, in a low question.

“Caesar”, he replied, unsmilingly indicating the salad with a sure hand.

This amusing incident happened in Moscow.

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