Weeping and wine-muddled after discovering the loss following dinner last night, we had reached my husband back home and asked him to book a room at the Marriott. American-style comfort and help was just what we needed.
All our Marriott points and a couple hundred bucks later we were checking in, relieved and happy to be in a place where they brought us Evian and spoke in English.
The concierge was indeed quite helpful the next morning, seeming not to notice our pitiful appearance, providing the information we needed and a map to find the embassy. Since it closed early in the day and this replacement passport process could take a while, we headed straight there.
Unfortunately, his directions were wrong. The concierge of an American hotel, a five-star hotel at that, had sent us awry. We cursed him as we stood, crying again, in front of the imposing doors that possibly once housed the embassy. Where is someone who will, with soothing murmurs and grace, take care of everything you need when you need it?
For all his helpfulness, the concierge's mistake could have left us stranded in Paris waiting for the embassy to open the next day. Marriott, all we wanted was to stay in your cushy embrace that night, but you let us down.




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