The Carlyle Hotel.

The uniformed attendants posted behind a discrete desk in the grand black-and-white lobby were impeccably polite.  But check-in wasn’t unspooling quite as we expected. The man next to me, owner of a blue blazer and a belligerent British accent, waved a sheet of paper and demanded to know what the devil these bloody charges were.

I, meanwhile, stood and waited – and waited – and waited. I’d supplied a credit card, cell phone number and e-mail address. I’d learned in detail about the hotel’s various services – yes, I’d be sure to have a drink in Bemelmans Bar, and the spa sounded divine. But I still didn’t have our room key. (more…)