Concierge level

I have just returned from another board meeting, this time in the Lone Star State. The hotel that hosted our meeting was eager to book us for a full-fledged conference in San Antonio, and so pulled out all the stops. I was greeted at the airport by a limousine driver holding a sign with my name on it, and upgraded to the concierge level at the hotel itself. The room, a suite with a huge bed and French doors, heralded my arrival with a mini-buffet of cheese (Boursin) and crackers (Carr’s water crackers), mixed nuts (no peanuts!), a green apple and a tower of tartlets and chocolates. There was even a small bottle of wine (and a corkscrew) holding up a card with my name on it. I was beginning to feel special.

During the meeting, they fed us lavishly (fresh, local strawberries for breakfast, one of the benefits of the sweltering heat) and even secured reservations for us at the hottest restaurant in town, Boudro’s. This Texas bistro, surrounded on all sides by kitschy Tex-Mex places on the Riverwalk, delivered both the excellent and the unassuming. Tableside guacamole sounds like a gimmick, but it more than lived up to the hype, and I can see why the prickly pear margarita is on the list of 1,000 things to do before you die. I returned to my concierge level suite satisfied but not stuffed, slipped on the supplied fluffy bathrobe and worked my way through the cable channels and chocolates. I could almost get used to this. (Don’t worry, I missed recycling bins, and my knee still jerks at fresh towels every day.)

After our meeting, the hotel graciously provided a limousine back to the airport, perplexed that we were insisting on sharing rides, practical (read non-Texan) folks that we are. My flights home were uneventful, if full, but I was greeted at baggage claim by a young man with a sign with my name. Not my driver, but Number One Son, trying to make me feel special.

But here’s the thing: As nice as that designer hotel bed with Egyptian cotton sheets was, my bed, with down comforter and Darling Husband, is far superior. The soap in the white-tiled shower was full-sized (oatmeal soap from Ballard Organics), and my fluffy blue bathrobe was waiting on a hook for me.

I was woken far too early by a Little One eager to share his mother’s day gifts for me: a candle, a beeswax kitty, and a rock that he found that glitters in the sunlight. Number One made me a bouquet of Mexican tissue paper flowers and scraped up enough for a box of Theo confections. And they all brought me breakfast in bed. Sorry, Marriott, you may think you have the luxury thing down pat, but these guys make me feel like a queen.