We're All in the Hospitality Business

Call them readers, guests or clients, you'll lose them if they don't feel welcome. I learned that working for Holiday Inn.

Me as a reservations agent for Holiday Inn and 30 years later in my Editor's photo for Chatelaine magazine.

I had just moved in with my boyfriend when I landed a summer job at Holiday Inn. They needed another perky voice on the phone at their reservations office. My resume listed writing awards, English studies and a single reference (occupation: "shipper"). The interviewer looked amused. "This Paul Jones.... He's not your boyfriend, is he?"

Paul was no shipping magnate. He shipped packages for an insurance company, but my half-truth was good enough for Gail.

It was 1970, the summer I discovered Monty Python and mourned the breakup of the Beatles. I started work in a flowered mini-dress so short that heads turned when I picked up a fallen paper clip. Gail trained me herself, and she knew service like Julia Child knew egg whites. Rule number one: Never keep a guest waiting. When phones trilled all over the office, we answered pronto: "Holiday Inn reservations, may I help you?"

Gail’s team had entered the computer age. Our terminals in downtown Toronto sent every reservation to the mighty Holidex, a network unrivaled outside the military. With one call to a minion like me, Mr. So-and-So or his "girl" could book an entire road trip. Oh, the things I could have learned if I cared enough to ask. But I cared not at all about Holiday Inn and its bourgeois clientele. Had they ever cracked up over the parrot sketch or made love to “Hey, Jude” while stoned? All day I dreamed of escape to our walk-up apartment with the salmon-pink bedroom where we rolled and tumbled like puppies.

Ice machines came to hotel halls because Holiday Inn put them there for Mr. So-and-So’s whisky on the rocks.

Innovation enthralled me, but only in the arts. I didn’t see how forward-thinking a hotel chain could be, although the signs abounded. Gail reported to the coiffed, cream-suited Mary Woodward, who glided past between management meetings and tours of new Holiday Inns but still made time to host a bridal shower in her home for one of us juniors. We were nibbling our cake when when the bride-to-be made a dismissive remark about second marriages. If you couldn’t get it right the first time, she declared, you surely never would. Mrs. Woodward set her straight in the most thoughtful way: “Oh, I don’t know about that. My husband and I were both married before, and we learned a lot from our mistakes.”

Women executives barely existed then, but Mrs. Woodward (never Mary) was already setting the standard. If I’d shown a healthy interest in Holiday Inn, she might have nudged me onto the management track.

I could have done a lot worse. The chain had competitors racing to keep up with one “first” after another: in-room phones and TVs, free accommodation for kids, a pool at every property. Ice machines came to hotel halls because Holiday Inn put them there for Mr. So-and-So’s whisky on the rocks. For my callers, only Holiday Inn would do. Some lost control when I couldn't book them in. Snarled one: "Don't bullshit me, young lady! I know you're holding rooms for the bigshots. You get that lying innkeeper on the blower and tell him Joe McCracken won’t take no for an answer!”

Gail had been walking the aisles, keeping an eye on her team. She stopped at my desk, soothingly maternal in her mauve shirtwaist dress and cat’s-eye glasses. While I struggled not to cry, she mouthed two words: "Hang up." I couldn't fathom it. "Rona, he’s drunk,” she explained. “And I won’t have you taking abuse from drunks.”

Two years after I left, Holiday Inn made the cover of Time.

I remember one burst of sweetness. A weary-sounding fellow I’ll call Mr. Bain, too junior to have his own "girl," called to book reservations for a long slog on the road. I had to book him into satellite towns instead of first-choice destinations. Lots of "Hold just a minute, sir" and "Let me check one more option," as Gail had instructed. When we finally worked it out, Mr. Bain asked my name. "Thank you for all your help, Rona. Next time I call, I'm going to ask for you."

I had always wanted to stand out—win the contest, get the lead in the play, dominate discussion in class. For the first time, I felt rewarded by treating someone as if he mattered. He couldn’t give me anything but gratitude, yet I sailed home on a wave of happiness.

I never booked another room for Mr. Bain. By August I'd had enough of "Holiday Inn reservations, may I help you?" When I told Gail I was quitting, she didn't look entirely surprised. She’d learned what to expect of English majors endorsed by shippers, and she had the grace to wish me well. Where life would take me I couldn’t say. I just knew I was done with the hospitality business.

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The Editor’s office at Canada’s premier women’s magazine seemed a far cry from my perch at Holiday Inn. An assistant managed my calendar; gilt-edged invitations summoned me to the parties of the season. The mail closest to my heart arrived in hand-addressed envelopes with postmarks from all over the country—some of it rapturous, some vibrating with outrage. Unlike every other editor I’ve known, I answered the letters myself (and the email as it took over). Responding in person called me to reflect on what mattered to readers who had plenty to do besides read Chatelaine. My attention went a long way toward calming our ferocious critics. More than one wrote back some version of this: “Dear Rona, I’ve decided not to cancel my subscription after all. I still don’t agree, but thank you for listening.”

Old-timers had been feeling left behind by a wave of changes we’d made to attract a younger audience. When I learned that unnamed members of the staff were calling these readers “Chatelhags”—to a media reporter, who published the term in her column—I didn’t consciously ask myself, “What would Gail do?” But I like to think my response would have made her proud. I called the team together and laid it on the line: “We owe our jobs to our readers. From this day forward, anyone who insults them had better find a job someplace else.”

Call them guests or readers, customers or clients, they won’t come back unless they feel valued.

Some of us work all our lives without encountering a single boss who champions the people we serve. Call them guests or readers, customers or clients, they won’t come back unless they feel valued. What we offer is more than the bed, the story or the service; it’s an experience that can lift people up, drag them down or leave them cold. You’ve probably heard way too often that we’re all in sales, and I don’t entirely disagree. But would you return to a seller who doesn’t make you welcome? When you get down to basics, we’re all in the hospitality business.

More than 50 years after I walked out on Gail and Mrs. Woodward, I delivered a keynote speech at the Sudbury, Ontario Holiday Inn. I told my audience of travel writers how proud I am to have worked for the chain that transformed an entire industry. Gail, whose last name I forget, would be at least 80 be now, and Mary Woodward a centenarian. Google has nothing to tell me about “Mary Woodward Holiday Inn Toronto.” I’m honoring these leaders the only way I can, by sharing the story of their gift to me. But of course they weren’t looking for glory. They believed with all their hearts in delighting travelers.

Just what I aim to do for the readers of Amazement Seeker. You could be paying some bills, calling your mom or making a tuna melt, but you chose to settle in with me and read this post to the end. Like Mr. Bain half a century ago, you’ve made me happier than I can say. Ask for me again, and I’ll be here, glad to see you back.

With client Pamela Wamback after my keynote speech for the Travel Media Association of Canada

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Someone could write a book about Holiday Inn (no, I won’t be stepping up). Click here for the Time cover story on the brand, and here for a look-back from CNN.

Got a story to share about a boss who inspired you, or a ho-hum job that taught you more than you knew at the time? Do you agree or disagree that we all work in hospitality? See you in the comments. I still do my best to answer every reader.

Warmest thanks to my newest paid subscribers, Micha Choi, Kay LeFevre and Amy Persechini. If you find my posts meaningful and are feeling flush, I hope you’ll consider a paid subscription. Either way, I’m honored to have you in my story circle. I can’t say it too many times: Any money that comes my way is a bonus. My greatest reward is your time and attention.