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They say The Ritz has amenities you didn't even know you needed. I called the concierge, and he starts listing off things like a human TripAdvisor. "Sir, we have a complimentary shoeshine service, a pillow menu, and access to our exclusive rooftop garden." I'm thinking, "Do I look like I have a rooftop garden fantasy? I just want my shoes to stop looking like I mowed the lawn with them!" And then there's the spa. I went in, and they asked if I wanted a seaweed wrap. I'm from the suburbs; the fanciest wrap I know is a gift wrap. I was tempted to ask if they had a chicken nugget wrap, you know, keep it real.
But hey, they're all about relaxation. They even had a meditation room. I walked in, and there's this serene atmosphere. I'm trying to meditate, and all I can think about is whether the guy next to me is also wondering if they have Wi-Fi in this Zen palace.
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Now, checking out of The Ritz is a production. They hand you the bill in a leather-bound folder, like it's a secret society initiation document. I opened it, and the numbers looked like they were written in Roman numerals. I had to call the concierge to decipher it for me. "Yes, sir, that's the cost of your mini-bar indulgence." Mini-bar? I thought it was the Macaulay Culkin Home Alone survival kit. And then there's the moment of truth, the tipping dilemma. You start doing mental math, trying to figure out how much is enough to express your gratitude without declaring bankruptcy. It's like playing financial Jenga, and if you pull out the wrong bill, the whole tower collapses, and they escort you out through the servant's entrance.
But hey, despite the price tag, you can't put a cost on the memories. And by memories, I mean the story of how I briefly lived like royalty and then went back to my regular life, where a mint on the pillow is considered a luxury.
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Alright, so I recently had the pleasure of staying at The Ritz. You know you're in for a treat when the lobby carpet probably costs more than your car. I walked in, and I felt like I needed to apologize to my sneakers for stepping on such luxurious ground. It's like the floor was saying, "Hey, buddy, I'm worth more than your entire wardrobe!" And then there's the staff. I swear, they're not just employees; they're diplomats of elegance. I asked one of them for the Wi-Fi password, and he handed it to me on a silver platter, literally. I'm sitting there, thinking, "Is this a password or a royal decree?"
But let's talk about the room. They call it a suite, but I'm pretty sure it's a portal to another dimension where everything is gold-plated. I walked into the bathroom, and there were so many towels I felt like I was in a high-end laundromat. I half-expected a butler to jump out and say, "Congratulations, sir, you've found the towel treasure chest!
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You ever notice how at The Ritz, they make you feel like royalty? I called room service, and the guy on the other end spoke in a tone so soothing, I thought I accidentally dialed a spa. I asked for a burger, and he responded like I just ordered a culinary masterpiece. "Ah, the sirloin delicacy, excellent choice, sir." Dude, it's a burger, not the Holy Grail! And then there's the way they present the food. They bring it in like it's a procession. The waiter enters, holding my burger aloft as if it's the crown jewels. I'm sitting there thinking, "Am I about to be knighted by a Big Mac?"
But you know what they say, the fancier the place, the smaller the portions. I ordered a steak, and it looked like it was on a diet. I had to squint to find it on the plate. I was expecting a T-bone, not a T-pixel!
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