SF Hotel Stories

Once I was suited up, the first thing the HR director said was, “You get along with people, right?”    

Not sure how to answer, I said, “I get along with everyone.”  “Good,” she said.  Pointing to two of the bellmen, she continued, “They won’t even speak to you until you’ve been here a minimum of three months.”  Pointing to another bellman, she said, “He will ask you to work for him, but he won’t ever work for you.”  She pointed to a fourth bellman, and said, “And that one will try to steal your Fronts.”    

   

Front is an old-fashioned term.  When the front desk finishes checking in a guest, they will yell, “Front!”  And the next bellman in line will assist the incoming guest with their luggage.  When someone steals your Front, they are essentially cutting in line.  

   

After the human resources director gave me the lowdown on which coworkers will ignore and steal from me, I met my boss, the bell captain.  The HR director brought me up to the employee locker room where she introduced me to Mr. John Francis.  Later, an older bellman who didn’t like him (and there were many), told me his real name was Juan Francisco, but he anglicized it when he moved to California from Mexico.    

   

After the requisite pleasantries, I informed John that work was my priority, and anything like college or a social life would take a back seat to my work responsibilities.  I assumed that would impress upon him my commitment to the job.  With that, he put his arm around my shoulder.    

   

I thought this was a good sign, and I expected him to give some sage advice.  Instead he said, “Peter, my friend,” stopping for a Spencer Tracy-like pause. “You college punks think you have it so easy.  When you come here, I expect you to WORK!  I don’t want to see any of this…”  

He then got down on his knees and started flailing his arms wildly like an infant, “I’m a little baby, wah wah wah!”  Standing up, he continued, “Don’t make me tell you twice.”  

   

Mind you, I was in a large locker room with dozens of other employees.  While he was dispensing his wisdom, I couldn’t help but look around to see who was watching.  They all were, and they all telegraphed to me in their own way, “He is your boss, not ours, so you have to deal with him.”    

   

John then gave me a book blurb-length instruction on how to do the job.  In the employee’s break room, he instructed me on the standard introduction to give guests while taking them to their room, and explained briefly what my duties were as the graveyard bellman.  

   

He also introduced me to Tommy and Ricky Ting.  Their names sounded like they were kids, but they were rather two older Chinese bellmen who had been working there for decades.  They reminded me of henchmen in a James Bond movie. Tommy was short and stout, and had a big shock of hair sticking up.  Ricky, on the other hand, was thin, totally bald, and wore shaded glasses - even indoors.  Both would stand silently on either side the front desk with their arms folded behind their backs like two bookends, and they wouldn’t move until called upon.  The human resources director wasn’t kidding, the Ting brothers didn’t talk to me for months.  Most of the other bellmen kept to themselves; they just wanted to do their jobs, but some did offer to answer questions.    

   

That was my first day working in a hotel, and thus began my first day in the hospitality industry as a graveyard-shift bellman.  You really can’t start any lower than that.  

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And...     

The 1989 Loma Prieta Earthquake:   

When I got to work the afternoon following the earthquake, I came upon an exodus of guests leaving.  I couldn’t tell if they had been traumatized by the experience, or just annoyed that there was still no power.  Either way, by sundown there were only five rooms occupied out of the 110 in total.  Lucky for me, most of the guests had left in the morning and I worked in the evening.  I was spared from having to carry luggage down nine flights of stairs, as the elevators still didn’t have power.  That duty was left to the assistant general manager and the morning bellman.   As dusk turned to night, we still had no power, so the remaining guests mostly had to stay in the candlelit lobby since their rooms also didn’t have lights.    

   

I had very little to do that night.  I went to the roof of the hotel and saw a skyline completely blacked out, save for the red emergency lights blinking on top of the skyscrapers downtown.     Some of the remaining guests were a group of Russian folk musicians who were touring the country, and just happened to be in San Francisco the day of the earthquake.  They were one of the first cultural exchange programs between the United States and what was still the Soviet Union.  There we were, about a dozen people, guests and staff alike.  We sat in the candlelit lobby, eating Chinese food, listening to live traditional Russian folk music, and getting to know one another.  For myself and the remaining guests, it was a magical night to remember following a tragic day. 

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And...  

Celebrity Encounters:   

I am often asked about what famous people I’ve carried luggage for, but the Franklyn didn’t really have famous guests.  We got them right before they got famous, or after they once were.  A bellman working on the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles or New York’s Fifth Avenue would probably have better stories.  However, a few notable celebrities did cross the Franklyn’s threshold.     The hotel was popular with bands and singers who were on the verge of stardom, but not at the five-star hotel level of fame yet; we got them when they were right at that precipice.    

   

One night I was working with Felix when a bus pulled up to the front door and a gaggle of unkempt hippie kids got out and milled about the lobby.  In his most persnickety manner, Felix leaned over to me and said, “Look at those lazy bums, dressed in dirty clothes, and coming into a nice place like this. It’s disgusting!  Don’t they have any self-respect for how they look?”     He assumed they were there to ask if they could use the bathroom, and was seriously prepared to call the police on them. Then the oldest of them, a middle-aged man in a shiny tour jacket, came up to the desk and said, “Hi. We’re Smashing Pumpkins, and we’re here to check in.”       

   

Even after it was established that they were legitimate guests, Felix could not let it go that someone would dress like that in public, and he was disgusted.  I reminded him that their drummer probably made ten times what he did in a year.  This left Felix unfazed, and it didn’t matter to him how rich they were.  Ironically, he was only 30, but to him they were frivolous undisciplined hippie ne'er-do-wells.

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And...  

The Mystique of San Francisco: