Working in a hotel is like being a linguist, a psychic, and a hostage negotiator all at once. You learn quickly that guests speak in code—not official code, mind you, but a mystifying, often passive-aggressive dialect I like to call Guestish. It’s a language without conjugation but heavy on implication. There’s very little direct communication, yet somehow everything is urgent. And as a General Manager, my fluency in Guestish has become disturbingly advanced.
To the untrained ear, a guest’s polite nod might seem meaningless. To me? That’s a full-blown request for an upgrade, early check-in, and a whisper of “I better get my IHG points or I will Yelp you into oblivion.”
“I just wanted to let you know…”
No sentence that starts with this ever ends well. Ever. It’s hotel code for “I’ve already written a 2,000-word TripAdvisor review in my head.” Guests begin this way when they’re about to drop a complaint so mild you’re not sure whether to apologize or bake them a cake. “I just wanted to let you know the water pressure is a little strong.” Do you want me to notify the fire department? Offer a loofah bonus pack?
“Everything’s fine… now.”
Translation: It absolutely was not fine, and we’re both pretending it was. This is typically said after a power outage, a room mix-up, or after their dog “accidentally” marked the hallway. They don’t want a solution—they want acknowledgment that they suffered, possibly war-level trauma, and that you will carry the emotional weight of it until you die.
When a guest stands silently at the front desk with intense eye contact but no words:
Ah yes. This is the sacred Stare of Expectation. You’re supposed to guess why they’re there, how they booked, what they want, and their grandmother’s maiden name—all based on their aura. Sometimes I just open a drawer and hand them a banana to see if that satisfies the vibe. Surprisingly, 1 in 10 times, it does.
“I’m not one to complain, but…”
They are. That’s the sentence equivalent of someone saying “no offense” before deeply offending you. They are exactly the type to complain. This preamble usually precedes a grievance so minuscule it defies logic: “I could hear birds outside my window. Real birds. Not piped-in lobby music. It was jarring.” Sorry, Janet, nature exists.
“Is the pool heated?”
What they mean is: “If I step one toe in and it’s below lukewarm, I will report this hotel to the Better Business Bureau and possibly the Hague.” Heated means different things to different guests. To some, it means a pleasant 84 degrees. To others, it means bathwater served by cherubs. Either way, if they have to ask, they already don’t believe you.
The guest who lingers at breakfast and slowly builds a to-go tower:
They will never say “I’m stealing.” Instead, they’ll hover near the waffle maker with Tupperware that suspiciously matches their luggage. If questioned, they’ll say, “I’m just grabbing something for my husband, he’s still in the room,” even though they arrived solo and booked a room with one twin bed.
“We had a great stay.”
When delivered with an overcompensating smile, this is not a compliment—it’s a threat. They’re buttering you up before dropping a grenade on your survey scores. Or they’re fishing for a discount for a mysterious, never-mentioned earlier grievance: “I didn’t sleep well because the pillow wasn’t spiritually aligned with my chakras.” I see you, Rebecca.
Body language tip: The power stomp.
The heavy walk to the front desk from someone wearing pajama pants in public? That’s a complaint coming in hot. It’s never good. Pajama pants + a hotel-branded coffee cup = “Why is my Wi-Fi slow and why is your hallway too long?”
Guests who act like they know how the hotel should run better than you:
These are my favorite. “Well, when I stayed at the Four Seasons in 2004…” Sir, this is a La Quinta. You can’t bring that kind of energy here. We have a pancake machine, not room service. Let us live.
The overly polite guest:
Be afraid. Be very afraid. When a guest insists everything was “just wonderful,” and compliments “how charmingly the elevator makes that noise,” they are stockpiling emotional receipts. There is a war brewing inside them, and one missing towel might set off a six-page manifesto to corporate with diagrams and footnotes.
“Is this your standard room?”
Translation: “I feel like I deserve more than what I paid for, and I want you to feel bad enough to fix it.” It’s less a question and more a psychological chess move. My response? “It is our standard room, yes. But you are exceptional, and so I’ve added a complimentary mint.”
Let’s not forget the phone call with heavy breathing and no words.
They called the front desk from Room 214. They are displeased. They want you to know. But saying it out loud would be uncouth. So instead, they huff. You must now become both detective and hostage negotiator. Did we forget their towels? Is the ghost acting up again? Or did someone dare to park slightly over the line in front of their car?
And finally:
The Walk-By Glare™.
This is when a guest walks past the desk three times, slowly, each pass making more eye contact than the last. They’re daring you to engage. They have a complaint, but they want to be courted. I usually give them a subtle nod, like a mafia don offering forgiveness. If they nod back, the peace accord is sealed.
Decoding guests is part science, part art, and mostly trauma response. You learn to interpret silence as “I need something,” and a smile as “This better be free.” It’s exhausting, it’s hilarious, and honestly? It’s the weirdest kind of fun. Because as much as hotel guests test your patience, they also give you the best stories.
So to my fellow GMs out there: stay sharp, stay caffeinated, and keep your decoder ring handy. Because Guestish is always evolving, and someone’s about to “just let you know” that the coffee wasn’t “hot enough to soothe their soul.”
And you? You’ll nod, smile, and respond fluently. Because you speak the language too.