I had been asked by the Prime Minister to attend the World Travel Market in London, a large annual tourism trade show. The flight to England with BWIA was pleasant; although the plane wasn’t the fanciest in the world, the food was good West Indian fare and the cabin service friendly and efficient. Traveling with the Minister of Tourism meant special treatment on arrival; the first to disembark, we were escorted to a V.I.P. lounge, where our passports were dealt with by an exceedingly polite official. Once our luggage had been collected, we were driven to London in a comfortable van, a long drive for those of us coming from small Islands!
We arrived at our destination, and when I saw the drab exterior of the Hotel Lily I heaved a sigh much like the one I had heaved on seeing my accommodations in West Berlin a few years previously. Our Government was footing the hotel bill, and had booked us into a property that matched the country’s finances. However, the bare bones hotel looked functional, and its location was convenient; the World Travel Market was held at Earl’s Court, a large convention building within easy walking distance, and I would not have to worry about transport to and from the trade show.
We entered the hotel, the lobby of which was bustling with people checking out. I took a seat with the Minister and Director, it made sense to wait until the path to the reception desk had cleared. The Minister was tired, and nodded off in his chair as we waited to check in. The lobby was too warm and rather stuffy, and the smell of fried eggs and sausages permeated the room. I couldn’t help noticing how dirty the hotel’s front windows were as well as the lobby’s tiled floor, and hoped it wasn’t indicative of the cleanliness of the guest rooms!
Once the activity around the reception desk had cleared, we approached the harried-looking clerk to check in. She was not at all friendly or welcoming, and when the Minister gave his name, she told him in a snippy voice that his room was not ready and to come back later. With a weary sigh he trudged back to his chair and took a seat. The Director was given the same treatment, and he too returned to his chair to wait. I was quite annoyed, the receptionist could at least make an effort to be pleasant, and some eye contact would have been nice! I stepped up to the desk, and when I gave MY name the transformation was immediate. Her dour face lit up and her posture straightened, she looked like she wanted to kiss me on the spot! Was it because my skin was white and the Minister and Director were black? Why gush so effusively over me and treat the two men so poorly?
The answer lay in the messages waiting for me at reception. Two of my English friends had called to ask if I had checked in, and had requested that I give them a call once I got settled. My friend Jane Benson was actually LADY Jane, her father was an Earl hence the title. My other friend was none other than Jasper Conran, and he, as well as his father, Sir Terrance, was quite famous. These messages from the aristocracy meant that I must be a SOMEBODY, because MY room was miraculously ready for me and I was presented with a key. Smiling at the ingratiating clerk, I turned and gave the key to the Minister of Tourism, explaining that he was an important man and should get the room first. The lady’s smile faltered somewhat, but she rallied and gave me another key, which I promptly gave to the Director of Tourism. I wasn’t quite so popular with the woman at that point, but British snobbery won the day and I received a third key just for me.