***Edited August 5, 2015 – if you've already read this, just scan to the bottom for a link to the follow-up post.
Preamble #1: Sorry for the delay – it's just really darned difficult to work up a good rant when there's an adorable new puppy in front of you! Hopefully sleep deprivation has helped put me back in a semi-crabby place, at least momentarily...
Preamble #2: We really and truly had yet another incredible anniversary week at Sir Sam's this year. The staff there are amazing, and we were totally spoiled rotten, as always. It was a wonderful week, and we have wonderful memories, and we would go back in an instant if... well, don't want to blow the story before we even tell the story! All the staff, you were and are wonderful, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, the food was incredible, the service was amazing, we love you all. Period. No, you deserve an exclamation point. And a few extra, just to annoy punctuation junkies. ?
Preamble #3: I'm going to drop the pretence of this being written by both of us. Most of you know it's usually me (Alyssa) doing the writing, anyhow. But Don would probably never say many of the things I'm about to say (at least not in public – we've both said much worse on the subject between the two of us and among friends). He's probably a nicer person than I am. But I tell funnier stories at parties. And I take full responsibility for any offence the following may give any parties who truly deserve it. ?
Ahem...
I suppose it started with the little things. Because it was the little things, our first time to Sir Sam's, that had impressed us the most: the basket of sunscreen and bug repellant in the front hall with the invitation to help yourself; the fact that fellow guests had started scheming with us to try and figure out some outlandish request to make someone finally say "no" to us; the staff members staying overtime that one thunderstorm-y night because a group of us had started a conversation while hiding from the rain, and it continued into the wee hours (that was the night we realized, much later, that Don had been drinking the most expensive scotch at the bar all night – egads!), all the personal touches, little complimentary things here and there (sadly, not Don's scotch), the everything-you-ask-for-and-more kind of environment that made Sir Sam's stand out from anywhere either of us had ever travelled (and believe me, in my previous life, I travelled pretty darned well).
This year, there was no basket of sunscreen at the front when we arrived. You had to ask at the desk for towels for the spa (they used to be laid out in the hall and you could grab what you needed). Those little extras weren't really around. Ah well, we thought, might be hard times in the tourism trade these days, tightening the pocket book a bit, understandable... But we did notice.
We also noticed a lot of faces were missing. One of the other things that had so impressed us when we first came to Sir Sam's was the number of people who had worked there for years and years – some of them who had started as local kids doing dishes and were now upper management, another who had been here for her honeymoon, and liked it so much she ended up working there when they moved closer (but still had vacations there as well). It had been a true family-run, locally-loved establishment – and if you've got that strong an employee retention in the ever-transient hospitality industry, you know you're doing something right. Except... many were gone this year. And there weren't a lot of new faces around to take the missing ones' places. Those who were there were running (not just literally) around working like crazy, but it was still quite obvious that the place was very short-staffed. Tough times again...?
Don was disappointed to learn that he wouldn't be able to go water-skiing, as he had the previous year, because there was no longer a power boat. Strange, when full water sports was still part of the advertising, but... tough times... price of gas?
Something had changed. We weren't sure what and we weren't sure why, but... it just didn't feel the same. When we'd met the new owner two years ago (it was mere weeks after the change in ownership, I believe), he assured us then that he was keeping everything the same as when James Orr had owned the establishment, and that he was intent on continuing his legacy. But somehow, the legacy seemed to be falling away. It just wasn't that... cottage-y, so-thrilled-to-have-you-here-now-how-can-I-make-sure-you-have-the-best-vacation-ever atmosphere anymore. It was starting to become... nice, but ordinary.
But heck, maybe we were jaded? Maybe all these years of being in paradise made us not appreciate it as much as we used to? Could certainly be a plausible explanation, but...
We were soon shocked to discover that a new phrase had popped up in the staff vocabulary: "I'm sorry, we aren't really allowed to do that..." Hmmm. Now, if this had been a request to go pole-dancing while balancing running chainsaws and doing tequila shots, that would have been a reasonable response. But this was to easy requests such as one couple's wish to have dinner on the screened-in porch instead of in the dining room – which used to happen ALL THE TIME, just fine. Not allowed...? Maybe a licensing thing? No, because we and many others were served alcohol on the porch throughout our stay. Heck, they even serve drinks on the boat cruise! Not allowed...?
Then there were the little things that honestly weren't a big deal to us, but wouldn't have happened before. The broken dimmer switch (I could have replaced it myself with a $5 thing from the hardware store), the burnt-out lightbulbs that never got replaced, the mattress that sagged so much I had to climb my way over the side of bed onto the floor and do yoga stretches before my back would forgive me (OK, that was a big deal), having to wait for my crème brûlée because the dish washer had taken the torch to light the nightly bonfire, the same (large) dead bug in the middle of the window screen four dinners in a row... Things that are really princess-and-the-pea-y, but we did notice.
Those little pots of fresh preserves at breakfast were gone, replaced by the typical diner square packs of Kraft peanut butter and not-fresh-but-may-have-fruit-in-there-somewhere jam. The days of the free-pour at the bar were over. All our drinks were carefully measured out in a measuring glass, eye-balled to make sure it hadn't gone over, then poured into the glass. Geez, Louise – heaven forbid an extra quarter-ounce get in there.
And the Water Spa – the pivotal feature that sets this Inn apart – was in just horrid condition. This, despite it having apparently been drained and re-hauled the year before. Paint peeling, tiles missing, and most importantly, jets that were completely non-functioning.
Things were weird... Maybe troubled times, but... oh dear, was our beloved Inn really in that much financial trouble? It had always seemed to be full before, and yet for our first few days, they didn't have enough guests to bother laying out the breakfast buffet that has always been a fixture – they just brought us a bit of fruit, yogurt and pastries to our table instead, where we sat alone. What was happening?
We started to get a little sniff of it that first morning, when the owner came around for his morning schmooze – and it felt... well, it felt like he had read in an inn-owners manual somewhere that you should say hello to your guests in the morning, and he was following the instructions. It just didn't seem terribly heart-felt, and there seemed to be a bit of a hesitation then an "oh yes, I remember!" look on his face before he said "it's really good to have you two returning again this year." Had someone coached him ahead of time? Maybe he just had other stuff on his mind, like this financial difficulty the Inn seemed to be in... so... slack cut. Until we mentioned how sad we were to not be seeing Chris and Gordo and some of the other familiar faces this year, and the defence shield was visibly put in place. The voice that had previously entertained essence of used-car-salesman started to verge on hysterical-five-year-old-trying-to-convince-you-not-to-look-behind-the-bedroom-door-because-everything-is-fine-and-the-fingerpaint-is-still-in-the-tubes-and-if-it-turns-out-it's-not-it's-really-my-brother's-fault-because-I-was-reading-quietly.
We left breakfast that morning a little bewildered, curious, and slightly suspicious.
[An aside: The owner does the breakfast schmooze most mornings, and we noticed throughout the week that it was with the air of a social climber at a cocktail party – always looking past you as he's speaking, just in case he can spy someone more important to talk to. And not just with us, it was pretty consistent – as were his talking points (I could mouth many of them to Don by the end of the week). Later in the week, as he was staring past us and saying we were "a really great couple", we had to suppress a fit of the giggles – there was no drop of sincerity to drip, he'd never bothered to get to know whether or not we were a good couple (we're axe-murderers, buddy), and it honestly sounded like someone had written that down in his pre-breakfast notes, and he wanted to slip it in before he got to the important table. I must also mention another conversation – in the midst of an extreme heat warning – when he said he refused to bring up the portable air conditioners to the guest rooms, because of all the money it would cost, dontcha know.]
That evening, when Don had gone down to the bar to grab our first-night bedtime scotches, he came back with a business card from Kyle, the apparent new "Vice President of Sales". Sales? When was there ever a vice-president of sales?!? What would he be selling?!? Ginsu knives?
Kyle had apparently handed him the card, and told Don if we ever wanted to come back to talk to him, so he can swing us a deal. Uh... ok... please let go of my hand, you're kind of creeping me out, and no I'm not going to buy Amway from you, no matter how fervently you stare and pump my damned hand. Plus, we always got deals before, on account of us being "VIPs" (I think we automatically got that status on our 3rd visit, but it does seem, from later conversations, that the staff actually really likes us and looks forward to us coming back each year – who knew? – obviously not the owner on his daily breakfast schmooze).
The next day, Don didn't have to point out Kyle. From the description of the night before, I could pick him out instantly. Everything that Sir Sam's is not: loud, boorish, telegraphing entitlement, not terribly interested in anyone unless he was telling them how awesome he truly was. Getting the picture? Seemed to be around my age, yet still stuck in an era where Rodney Dangerfield was someone to be emulated. Slick but clueless. Later, as I saw the manager Stephanie hauling a box of linens nearly as big as she was across the front porch, I also got to listen to him walking behind her (empty-handed) blaring about "independent women these days," oblivious to the raised eyebrows of half the population of the front lawn.
We did our best to avoid Kyle. He made my nostrils curl and my lip squinge and my ass clench and my shoulders hit my ears and I can't be responsible for what comes out of my mouth when those four body parts become engaged at the same time... Best to avoid Kyle.
And we mostly succeeded...
But remember that bit about the staff liking us and looking forward to seeing us? That's because, over the years, we've developed a kind of relationship with folks there – OK, it's a bit of a lopsided one, since they're technically working and we're the ones they're looking after, but... we've always been friendly with them. And it's not a used-car-salesman type of friendly, the people there have always been super-genuine and wonderful. And people who like each other talk with each other about stuff. And notice each others' raised eyebrows. So gradually, over the course of the week, some of the puzzle pieces started coming together.
In the past year, not only had the Inn lost Chris (who was the head manager the last time, and was one of our favourite staff members, not that you're supposed to have favourites), but they'd also lost Steve and Janice, two other very long-term managers (who we hadn't known as well, but they had been great, and some of the obviously-missing faces). The general consensus seemed to be that Chris had been spending the previous two years holding everything together, and nobody realized until he left just how much of a buffer he had been for the staff. Steve and Janice had, in turn, tried to fill the gap, but it sounds like they just couldn't stand it and moved on to better places. In the couple of weeks before we arrived, it seems there had been a mass exodus of many of the other staff. And the week before we arrived, the head chef – who had been there for 17 years – had been heard screaming at Kyle (remember Kyle?) "you can't speak to me like that!", and he quit on the spot, with a second chef (of four) walking out the door with him. Leaving two chefs, who were now responsible for breakfast, lunch and dinner, seven days a week.
Needless to say, morale wasn't terribly strong. Not that any of the staff let that show in their treatment of their guests in any way, but you couldn't help but notice the furtive glances exchanged, and what seemed like a constant murmur of stress. And we saw people actually tear up when they said how much they missed Chris. He was obviously an important glue. Kyle was obviously dynamite – and I don't mean that in a 70's kind of way.
We knew that Gordo had been off due to knee surgery – followed by complications and infection, followed by more knee surgery, but what we hadn't known was why he'd needed it. We'd assumed he'd been doing something silly with his dogs, or had had a weird tobogganing accident over the winter or something. Not so. A lot of money had been sunk in to renovations last year – we had noticed last summer that there were new doors, new dining sets, and fresh paint in the main parts of the inn. But it appears that those were focused mostly on aesthetics, and not on structural details. Such as... oh... supporting the floor. So when said floor caved in under the weight of the bar fridge in the autumn, it seems to have also taken down the person who was working at the bar at that very moment. That person being Gordo-of-the-now-non-functional-knee. Which starts to makes you wonder if the anxiety witnessed in the staff was about them wondering whether they'd do something wrong, or who was the next to go and leave them alone, or if the ACTUAL FRIGGING FLOOR was ACTUALLY going to fall out from under them. (I was careful to not walk too close to our mini-fridge in the room – just stash my box of shame and run for it.)
So things were starting to make sense – although not making us particularly happy. While we had, earlier in the week, been dreaming about which room we'd like to ask for when we made our reservation for next year upon check-out, by mid-week we were thinking we'd rather wait and see if any of the Last Ones Standing were still around in the spring, and then we'd decide. (Besides, dogs in the Eastwoods cabin had recently become one of those "I'm sorry, we aren't really allowed to do that"-s, which had been one of our ideas.)
But then...
We failed in avoiding Kyle. Brutally, brutally failed. And... man alive, that Vice President of Sales should have in his contract that he's not allowed to open his mouth. Because EVERY TIME HE OPENS HIS MOUTH, THE STUPID STARTS LEAKING OUT!!!!! (But we learned a lot more about what was going wrong at the inn from one conversation with him than a week's worth of conversations with everyone else – and, as you read above, we'd already learned quite a bit.)
Hammer. Meet nail. Meet coffin.
Fortunately, this failure-to-avoid happened on our last full day there. Because my going to prison for beating someone senseless would not have been a good way to end our anniversary vacation, and I'm pretty sure we wouldn't have been allowed to keep the puppy.
It began as Don and I were enjoying our final pool match. Oblivious to the reaction he was provoking in my nostrils, upper lip, shoulders and ass, he approached the table for some chit chat. Oh my, the chit chat...
I will spare you all the drivel pouring out of his mouth – which made Andrew Dice Clay seem like a feminist as I, his female paying customer, stared in abject horror... yet he still kept talking. Because while that would help to explain the need to keep me out of prison, it does less to illuminate why we won't be returning to Sir Sam's until there's new ownership and management as the rest of the "conversation". (Note to Kyle: "conversations" usually involve such subtleties as "listening" and "paying attention".)
As had been the case all week, Kyle's favourite subject was, of course, Kyle. And how much money he's made, and how he knows the owner because their kids go to the same private school – he emphasized the "private" at least nine times, as apparently it hadn't impressed us as much as it should have the first time – how he sits by his pool and makes million-dollar deals, blah blah blah, private school, me me me, private school, did I mention how rich I am, blah blah blah, private school. (Inn Management instructions, section 2: make your guests feel like a million bucks, don't keep talking about a million bucks.)
No, from this first "conversation" with Kyle, I wish to highlight my personal favourite: After Kyle mentioned that he knew the owner via their kids' private school, and so Ryan hiring him as Vice President was a "no-brainer", because...
[Ooh, make sure you're sitting down, there's already too many injured knees in this story...]
BECAUSE:
He comes from a family that became rich in the I.T. business, and...
WAIT FOR IT... (sit down, sit down now!)
"There is ABSOLUTELY NO DIFFERENCE between working the I.T. business and working in Hospitality."
Yes. That. Came. Out. Of. His. Mouth.
Sit with that and savour it for a moment, shall we?: There is no difference between the I.T. business and Hospitality.
If I were in school-teacher mode, I would be asking the class to come up with a list of differences between information technology and hospitality, and I'm pretty sure a grade three student would come up with a staggeringly long list. Think of some of yours for a moment...
If he were such a genius at Hospitality, would he really have lost half the kitchen staff in one day, including a chef of over 17 years? Would the phrase "we aren't really allowed to do that" be the response to a request to eat where there was a breeze during an extreme heat warning? Would the place be ridiculously short-staffed, with several of those remaining confiding in us that they wouldn't be here next year? Would he have spent that amount of time talking to the guests about how much money he had? (Note to Kyle: I'm pretty sure I.T. people don't want to hear that kind of crap any more than your guests at the Inn, but it's in PARTICULARLY bad taste to be subjecting your paying guests to such drivel – nobody's impressed, nobody cares, everybody just wishes you'd just STFU.)
What, did you think I was just being unnecessarily cruel when I said he opens his mouth and the stupid starts leaking out? Because, while there was SOOOOO much more stupid to choose from, this one definitely takes the cake.
[There was a John Cleese interview I watched a while ago, in which he discussed a study his friend, a highly-esteemed professor, had conducted. This study took a look at experts in several fields, amateurs in those fields, as well as people who were not very good in those particular fields, and discovered that the people who are truly lousy and without hope in said field do not have the neurological tools required to even KNOW that they're lousy within that field. For instance, someone who is unhappy with their guitar playing is able to recognize that their music is not as they'd want to hear it – which allows them, if they're so driven, to learn how to improve what they're doing. Whereas someone who is a horrible player but thinks they're awesome will never know that they're horrible, and never be able to figure out how they can improve, and will therefore move throughout life playing guitar, oblivious to how they're setting other people's teeth on fire. (This explains some of the folks you run into at open stages, but I digress...) This little tidbit of information has proven helpful with my cello students, for instance, who lament that they can't play well – and I can tell them that hearing it's not as they want it to be means that they CAN play well, they just need to work on a few things. And those who come for an introductory lesson and can't hear that they sound like a dying goose get sent along to another teacher. This may seem to be a non-sequitor, but I'm certain the more observant of you can see the parallels between this little anecdote and... well... KYLE.]
After spouting off this little tidbit of "wisdom", Kyle strutted and pranced around like he'd said the most deep and intelligent thing known to the universe, completely oblivious to the way my throat was attempting to work its way out my eyeballs. Or perhaps he noticed and thought it was awe...? I shall never know, because he was fortunately called away for something before my throat could escape.
Breathe. Cry a little. Breathe again.
BUT...
Then he came back. And the leakage continued.
Remember the missing power boat lamented in earlier paragraphs, and how it had taken away the Inn's water sports offerings? And how we had supposed it might have been sold off or beached due to financial constraints? Remember that? Well, our suspicions that it was a victim of tough financial times was in error. You see...
THE OWNER ***GAVE*** THE INN'S POWER BOAT TO KYLE!!!!! Yes, the Inn's water sports offerings had been decimated because the new V.P. wanted a new toy and Ryan gave it to him. Because... I dunno... private school?
Further leakage revealed that Ryan was now living about an hour and a half away in Huntsville, in a home that cost him over two million dollars. TWO MILLION DOLLARS. Can't afford to ensure the health and safety of his staff (or guests, for that matter), or the little complimentary niceties, or a teensy bit of air conditioning in an extreme heat warning, but can afford a two-million-dollar home far, far away (plus at least 3 hours of gas per day for his breakfast schmoozes). SERIOUSLY?!?!? (It made me want to steal some towels, but... I'm too honest, plus it would probably be a staff member who got the blame.)
So... putting the pieces together, it seemed we had two of yer friendly-neighbourhood second- (or perhaps third-)generation rich boys whose parents may have understood the nature of hard work, but who themselves understood only dollar signs and big toys, and were behaving like entitled little brats. Never-neverland twits who want to prove themselves in the real world, but don't have a freaking clue how to work in Hospitality. (One of the owner's oft-repeated talking points, when guests who apparently already knew him asked why he wasn't still running the camp his family owned, was "camping is all about making the parents happy and the kids happy, and who wants to deal with that?!?" – a diamond-encrusted philosophy he's apparently extended to his new endeavour, as he hired the guy who thinks Hospitality is exactly the same as I.T.)
It was settled, we weren't going to book ourselves in for next year until we were 100% sure that there were still some of the Last Ones Standing left in the spring (but we weren't terribly convinced they'd last).
Devastated at the loss of "our" home-away-from-home, we couldn't concentrate on the pool game, so took our Honey Browns out to the patio, to nurse our wounds and mourn what the previous owner, James Orr, had built up over his 34 years of management. I can only imagine the despair he must feel, seeing all his hard and love-infused work had created starting to crumble away (along with with the floor) into ruin.
But the story was not over.
We so wish it were, but the story is not over.
Yes, the nail had met the hammer which had in turn met the coffin, but there was still the giant hole to dig, in which to plant the coffin and then bury in mounds of dirt. And then maybe stick some dynamite down and blow the whole thing sky-high.
There had been a couple sitting at another table when we sat down at the patio. We hadn't seen them before, and thought they must be new guests.
Once again, our assumption was in error.
For a mere few minutes after we sat down with our Honey Browns and started lamenting the demise of our beloved Sir Sam's Inn, Kyle and Ryan brought their own set of drinks and sat down at the table with them, behaving kind of like the drunken boors you find at the cheap-ass discount all inclusive island vacations, who have had just a few too many free drinks out of pineapples... only there were no pineapples in sight.
So while we tried, desperately, to NOT hear them, it was impossible to shut them out. Ryan and Kyle were regaling the anonymous couple with the details of their new partnership at the Inn, frequently punctuating the details with the oh-so-subtle sound of winning slot machines. Loudly. In front of not just us, but a lawn, pool and patio full of their paying customers.
"We're sitting on a GOLD MINE here – KaCHING!" "Every time I see someone pulling into the parking lot, I hear: KaCHING!" "The Spa alone will attract lots of people here, and then, KaChing, KaCHING!"
I swear, we had to hear the word "KaCHING" uttered at least thirty times in the twenty minutes we could bear sticking around. Before retreating upstairs to pack, and try not to be sick to our stomachs before our final dinner – and it was definitely our final dinner.
The arrogance, and Greed, and the fact that they didn't have a single brain cell in their heads that told them they might want to keep their voices down in front of the people who were being used for their sorry-you-have-such-a-lousy-self-esteem-but-surely-you-took-psych-101-and-know-this-sounds-really-bad ego- and wallet-boosting. Including the sixth-timer VIP's who had just provided a full week's worth of KaCHING to these spoiled little babies.
We fell in love with Sir Sam's Inn on our honeymoon in 2010. We've brought friends here, we've highly recommended it to other friends (and everyone who's been reading our Food & Beverage reports over the years). The biggest attractions when we first got to know it were the way guests were treated, the eagerness of the previous owner and staff to make sure we felt like VIP's even on our first visit, the fact that guests had to conspire to find something outlandish for anyone to say "no" to, the staff retention and community engagement, and the obvious joy and pride everyone had in making sure we were all spoiled rotten.
But this is no longer a place that treats its staff well. This is no longer a place that treats its guests like... cherished guests (to be clear: talking about the owning partnership, not the staff). This is a place owned and run by two rich brats trying to score a few more KaCHING!'s with the least possible effort. This is no longer our home-away-from-home. And we cannot, in any conscience, recommend it to anyone else.
Chris, the former manager who we (and all the staff) loved so very much came by on Saturday night to see us, but missed us, so he came back Sunday morning to make sure he caught us before we left. There was no KaCHING to be gained by this, there was nothing in it for him. He came to visit because of the relationship that had developed over the years. Gordo, the manager-on-leave-because-of-his-work-related-injury wanted to meet us for coffee earlier in the week, not because he wanted anything from us (in fact, I'm pretty sure he bought the coffee), or that he thought he could get some KaCHING!, but because a relationship had developed between us last year, and we were all sad he was missing our annual visit. THIS is what running a successful Inn is all about – not the KaCHING, but the people.
We've actually been fantasizing about just staying home next year, but inviting our favourite Sir Sam's people to our house for a visit. I'm sure they'll all be quickly snapped up by other resorts who understand quality, so it's probably not feasible, but... a nice fantasy. ? We know one of the previous managers has bought his own resort, which we may very well check out instead next year. There are others who have left and are working elsewhere, so we might track them down and see what their new resorts have to offer. Some are conspiring to team up and run their own place – and we're sure they'd do it brilliantly.
Our not-so-secret fantasy would be that the remaining staff organizes a coup, make Mr. "KaCHING", and Mr. "Hospitality is the same as I.T." go KaPUT, and the old guard comes back to restore Sir Sam's to its former glory. Ah, heaven...
We know many of those who have left would gladly return, if those two were out of the picture. We feel exactly the same. As long as they're running things, we're staying the hell away from that sinking ship. We can only pray that, before it is too late, the Inn changes hands to someone who truly cares about both the art and the business of Innkeeping, and that Sir Sam's can become Sir Sam's once more.
We fell out of love with Sir Sam's Inn on our fifth anniversary in 2015. It was a wonderful five years, but it's time to say good-bye. A one-sided relationship isn't a true nor a healthy relationship. Time to find a place that appreciates us for who we are, and not just what we can give them.
Our hearts are open, and we're ready to fall in love again, with the right one.
EDITED:
Just when you thought it couldn't get worse? IT GOT WORSE.
Preamble #1: Sorry for the delay – it's just really darned difficult to work up a good rant when there's an adorable new puppy in front of you! Hopefully sleep deprivation has helped put me back in a semi-crabby place, at least momentarily...
Preamble #2: We really and truly had yet another incredible anniversary week at Sir Sam's this year. The staff there are amazing, and we were totally spoiled rotten, as always. It was a wonderful week, and we have wonderful memories, and we would go back in an instant if... well, don't want to blow the story before we even tell the story! All the staff, you were and are wonderful, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, the food was incredible, the service was amazing, we love you all. Period. No, you deserve an exclamation point. And a few extra, just to annoy punctuation junkies. ?
Preamble #3: I'm going to drop the pretence of this being written by both of us. Most of you know it's usually me (Alyssa) doing the writing, anyhow. But Don would probably never say many of the things I'm about to say (at least not in public – we've both said much worse on the subject between the two of us and among friends). He's probably a nicer person than I am. But I tell funnier stories at parties. And I take full responsibility for any offence the following may give any parties who truly deserve it. ?
Ahem...
I suppose it started with the little things. Because it was the little things, our first time to Sir Sam's, that had impressed us the most: the basket of sunscreen and bug repellant in the front hall with the invitation to help yourself; the fact that fellow guests had started scheming with us to try and figure out some outlandish request to make someone finally say "no" to us; the staff members staying overtime that one thunderstorm-y night because a group of us had started a conversation while hiding from the rain, and it continued into the wee hours (that was the night we realized, much later, that Don had been drinking the most expensive scotch at the bar all night – egads!), all the personal touches, little complimentary things here and there (sadly, not Don's scotch), the everything-you-ask-for-and-more kind of environment that made Sir Sam's stand out from anywhere either of us had ever travelled (and believe me, in my previous life, I travelled pretty darned well).
This year, there was no basket of sunscreen at the front when we arrived. You had to ask at the desk for towels for the spa (they used to be laid out in the hall and you could grab what you needed). Those little extras weren't really around. Ah well, we thought, might be hard times in the tourism trade these days, tightening the pocket book a bit, understandable... But we did notice.
We also noticed a lot of faces were missing. One of the other things that had so impressed us when we first came to Sir Sam's was the number of people who had worked there for years and years – some of them who had started as local kids doing dishes and were now upper management, another who had been here for her honeymoon, and liked it so much she ended up working there when they moved closer (but still had vacations there as well). It had been a true family-run, locally-loved establishment – and if you've got that strong an employee retention in the ever-transient hospitality industry, you know you're doing something right. Except... many were gone this year. And there weren't a lot of new faces around to take the missing ones' places. Those who were there were running (not just literally) around working like crazy, but it was still quite obvious that the place was very short-staffed. Tough times again...?
Don was disappointed to learn that he wouldn't be able to go water-skiing, as he had the previous year, because there was no longer a power boat. Strange, when full water sports was still part of the advertising, but... tough times... price of gas?
Something had changed. We weren't sure what and we weren't sure why, but... it just didn't feel the same. When we'd met the new owner two years ago (it was mere weeks after the change in ownership, I believe), he assured us then that he was keeping everything the same as when James Orr had owned the establishment, and that he was intent on continuing his legacy. But somehow, the legacy seemed to be falling away. It just wasn't that... cottage-y, so-thrilled-to-have-you-here-now-how-can-I-make-sure-you-have-the-best-vacation-ever atmosphere anymore. It was starting to become... nice, but ordinary.
But heck, maybe we were jaded? Maybe all these years of being in paradise made us not appreciate it as much as we used to? Could certainly be a plausible explanation, but...
We were soon shocked to discover that a new phrase had popped up in the staff vocabulary: "I'm sorry, we aren't really allowed to do that..." Hmmm. Now, if this had been a request to go pole-dancing while balancing running chainsaws and doing tequila shots, that would have been a reasonable response. But this was to easy requests such as one couple's wish to have dinner on the screened-in porch instead of in the dining room – which used to happen ALL THE TIME, just fine. Not allowed...? Maybe a licensing thing? No, because we and many others were served alcohol on the porch throughout our stay. Heck, they even serve drinks on the boat cruise! Not allowed...?
Then there were the little things that honestly weren't a big deal to us, but wouldn't have happened before. The broken dimmer switch (I could have replaced it myself with a $5 thing from the hardware store), the burnt-out lightbulbs that never got replaced, the mattress that sagged so much I had to climb my way over the side of bed onto the floor and do yoga stretches before my back would forgive me (OK, that was a big deal), having to wait for my crème brûlée because the dish washer had taken the torch to light the nightly bonfire, the same (large) dead bug in the middle of the window screen four dinners in a row... Things that are really princess-and-the-pea-y, but we did notice.
Those little pots of fresh preserves at breakfast were gone, replaced by the typical diner square packs of Kraft peanut butter and not-fresh-but-may-have-fruit-in-there-somewhere jam. The days of the free-pour at the bar were over. All our drinks were carefully measured out in a measuring glass, eye-balled to make sure it hadn't gone over, then poured into the glass. Geez, Louise – heaven forbid an extra quarter-ounce get in there.
And the Water Spa – the pivotal feature that sets this Inn apart – was in just horrid condition. This, despite it having apparently been drained and re-hauled the year before. Paint peeling, tiles missing, and most importantly, jets that were completely non-functioning.
Things were weird... Maybe troubled times, but... oh dear, was our beloved Inn really in that much financial trouble? It had always seemed to be full before, and yet for our first few days, they didn't have enough guests to bother laying out the breakfast buffet that has always been a fixture – they just brought us a bit of fruit, yogurt and pastries to our table instead, where we sat alone. What was happening?
We started to get a little sniff of it that first morning, when the owner came around for his morning schmooze – and it felt... well, it felt like he had read in an inn-owners manual somewhere that you should say hello to your guests in the morning, and he was following the instructions. It just didn't seem terribly heart-felt, and there seemed to be a bit of a hesitation then an "oh yes, I remember!" look on his face before he said "it's really good to have you two returning again this year." Had someone coached him ahead of time? Maybe he just had other stuff on his mind, like this financial difficulty the Inn seemed to be in... so... slack cut. Until we mentioned how sad we were to not be seeing Chris and Gordo and some of the other familiar faces this year, and the defence shield was visibly put in place. The voice that had previously entertained essence of used-car-salesman started to verge on hysterical-five-year-old-trying-to-convince-you-not-to-look-behind-the-bedroom-door-because-everything-is-fine-and-the-fingerpaint-is-still-in-the-tubes-and-if-it-turns-out-it's-not-it's-really-my-brother's-fault-because-I-was-reading-quietly.
We left breakfast that morning a little bewildered, curious, and slightly suspicious.
[An aside: The owner does the breakfast schmooze most mornings, and we noticed throughout the week that it was with the air of a social climber at a cocktail party – always looking past you as he's speaking, just in case he can spy someone more important to talk to. And not just with us, it was pretty consistent – as were his talking points (I could mouth many of them to Don by the end of the week). Later in the week, as he was staring past us and saying we were "a really great couple", we had to suppress a fit of the giggles – there was no drop of sincerity to drip, he'd never bothered to get to know whether or not we were a good couple (we're axe-murderers, buddy), and it honestly sounded like someone had written that down in his pre-breakfast notes, and he wanted to slip it in before he got to the important table. I must also mention another conversation – in the midst of an extreme heat warning – when he said he refused to bring up the portable air conditioners to the guest rooms, because of all the money it would cost, dontcha know.]
That evening, when Don had gone down to the bar to grab our first-night bedtime scotches, he came back with a business card from Kyle, the apparent new "Vice President of Sales". Sales? When was there ever a vice-president of sales?!? What would he be selling?!? Ginsu knives?
Kyle had apparently handed him the card, and told Don if we ever wanted to come back to talk to him, so he can swing us a deal. Uh... ok... please let go of my hand, you're kind of creeping me out, and no I'm not going to buy Amway from you, no matter how fervently you stare and pump my damned hand. Plus, we always got deals before, on account of us being "VIPs" (I think we automatically got that status on our 3rd visit, but it does seem, from later conversations, that the staff actually really likes us and looks forward to us coming back each year – who knew? – obviously not the owner on his daily breakfast schmooze).
The next day, Don didn't have to point out Kyle. From the description of the night before, I could pick him out instantly. Everything that Sir Sam's is not: loud, boorish, telegraphing entitlement, not terribly interested in anyone unless he was telling them how awesome he truly was. Getting the picture? Seemed to be around my age, yet still stuck in an era where Rodney Dangerfield was someone to be emulated. Slick but clueless. Later, as I saw the manager Stephanie hauling a box of linens nearly as big as she was across the front porch, I also got to listen to him walking behind her (empty-handed) blaring about "independent women these days," oblivious to the raised eyebrows of half the population of the front lawn.
We did our best to avoid Kyle. He made my nostrils curl and my lip squinge and my ass clench and my shoulders hit my ears and I can't be responsible for what comes out of my mouth when those four body parts become engaged at the same time... Best to avoid Kyle.
And we mostly succeeded...
But remember that bit about the staff liking us and looking forward to seeing us? That's because, over the years, we've developed a kind of relationship with folks there – OK, it's a bit of a lopsided one, since they're technically working and we're the ones they're looking after, but... we've always been friendly with them. And it's not a used-car-salesman type of friendly, the people there have always been super-genuine and wonderful. And people who like each other talk with each other about stuff. And notice each others' raised eyebrows. So gradually, over the course of the week, some of the puzzle pieces started coming together.
In the past year, not only had the Inn lost Chris (who was the head manager the last time, and was one of our favourite staff members, not that you're supposed to have favourites), but they'd also lost Steve and Janice, two other very long-term managers (who we hadn't known as well, but they had been great, and some of the obviously-missing faces). The general consensus seemed to be that Chris had been spending the previous two years holding everything together, and nobody realized until he left just how much of a buffer he had been for the staff. Steve and Janice had, in turn, tried to fill the gap, but it sounds like they just couldn't stand it and moved on to better places. In the couple of weeks before we arrived, it seems there had been a mass exodus of many of the other staff. And the week before we arrived, the head chef – who had been there for 17 years – had been heard screaming at Kyle (remember Kyle?) "you can't speak to me like that!", and he quit on the spot, with a second chef (of four) walking out the door with him. Leaving two chefs, who were now responsible for breakfast, lunch and dinner, seven days a week.
Needless to say, morale wasn't terribly strong. Not that any of the staff let that show in their treatment of their guests in any way, but you couldn't help but notice the furtive glances exchanged, and what seemed like a constant murmur of stress. And we saw people actually tear up when they said how much they missed Chris. He was obviously an important glue. Kyle was obviously dynamite – and I don't mean that in a 70's kind of way.
We knew that Gordo had been off due to knee surgery – followed by complications and infection, followed by more knee surgery, but what we hadn't known was why he'd needed it. We'd assumed he'd been doing something silly with his dogs, or had had a weird tobogganing accident over the winter or something. Not so. A lot of money had been sunk in to renovations last year – we had noticed last summer that there were new doors, new dining sets, and fresh paint in the main parts of the inn. But it appears that those were focused mostly on aesthetics, and not on structural details. Such as... oh... supporting the floor. So when said floor caved in under the weight of the bar fridge in the autumn, it seems to have also taken down the person who was working at the bar at that very moment. That person being Gordo-of-the-now-non-functional-knee. Which starts to makes you wonder if the anxiety witnessed in the staff was about them wondering whether they'd do something wrong, or who was the next to go and leave them alone, or if the ACTUAL FRIGGING FLOOR was ACTUALLY going to fall out from under them. (I was careful to not walk too close to our mini-fridge in the room – just stash my box of shame and run for it.)
So things were starting to make sense – although not making us particularly happy. While we had, earlier in the week, been dreaming about which room we'd like to ask for when we made our reservation for next year upon check-out, by mid-week we were thinking we'd rather wait and see if any of the Last Ones Standing were still around in the spring, and then we'd decide. (Besides, dogs in the Eastwoods cabin had recently become one of those "I'm sorry, we aren't really allowed to do that"-s, which had been one of our ideas.)
But then...
We failed in avoiding Kyle. Brutally, brutally failed. And... man alive, that Vice President of Sales should have in his contract that he's not allowed to open his mouth. Because EVERY TIME HE OPENS HIS MOUTH, THE STUPID STARTS LEAKING OUT!!!!! (But we learned a lot more about what was going wrong at the inn from one conversation with him than a week's worth of conversations with everyone else – and, as you read above, we'd already learned quite a bit.)
Hammer. Meet nail. Meet coffin.
Fortunately, this failure-to-avoid happened on our last full day there. Because my going to prison for beating someone senseless would not have been a good way to end our anniversary vacation, and I'm pretty sure we wouldn't have been allowed to keep the puppy.
It began as Don and I were enjoying our final pool match. Oblivious to the reaction he was provoking in my nostrils, upper lip, shoulders and ass, he approached the table for some chit chat. Oh my, the chit chat...
I will spare you all the drivel pouring out of his mouth – which made Andrew Dice Clay seem like a feminist as I, his female paying customer, stared in abject horror... yet he still kept talking. Because while that would help to explain the need to keep me out of prison, it does less to illuminate why we won't be returning to Sir Sam's until there's new ownership and management as the rest of the "conversation". (Note to Kyle: "conversations" usually involve such subtleties as "listening" and "paying attention".)
As had been the case all week, Kyle's favourite subject was, of course, Kyle. And how much money he's made, and how he knows the owner because their kids go to the same private school – he emphasized the "private" at least nine times, as apparently it hadn't impressed us as much as it should have the first time – how he sits by his pool and makes million-dollar deals, blah blah blah, private school, me me me, private school, did I mention how rich I am, blah blah blah, private school. (Inn Management instructions, section 2: make your guests feel like a million bucks, don't keep talking about a million bucks.)
No, from this first "conversation" with Kyle, I wish to highlight my personal favourite: After Kyle mentioned that he knew the owner via their kids' private school, and so Ryan hiring him as Vice President was a "no-brainer", because...
[Ooh, make sure you're sitting down, there's already too many injured knees in this story...]
BECAUSE:
He comes from a family that became rich in the I.T. business, and...
WAIT FOR IT... (sit down, sit down now!)
"There is ABSOLUTELY NO DIFFERENCE between working the I.T. business and working in Hospitality."
Yes. That. Came. Out. Of. His. Mouth.
Sit with that and savour it for a moment, shall we?: There is no difference between the I.T. business and Hospitality.
If I were in school-teacher mode, I would be asking the class to come up with a list of differences between information technology and hospitality, and I'm pretty sure a grade three student would come up with a staggeringly long list. Think of some of yours for a moment...
If he were such a genius at Hospitality, would he really have lost half the kitchen staff in one day, including a chef of over 17 years? Would the phrase "we aren't really allowed to do that" be the response to a request to eat where there was a breeze during an extreme heat warning? Would the place be ridiculously short-staffed, with several of those remaining confiding in us that they wouldn't be here next year? Would he have spent that amount of time talking to the guests about how much money he had? (Note to Kyle: I'm pretty sure I.T. people don't want to hear that kind of crap any more than your guests at the Inn, but it's in PARTICULARLY bad taste to be subjecting your paying guests to such drivel – nobody's impressed, nobody cares, everybody just wishes you'd just STFU.)
What, did you think I was just being unnecessarily cruel when I said he opens his mouth and the stupid starts leaking out? Because, while there was SOOOOO much more stupid to choose from, this one definitely takes the cake.
[There was a John Cleese interview I watched a while ago, in which he discussed a study his friend, a highly-esteemed professor, had conducted. This study took a look at experts in several fields, amateurs in those fields, as well as people who were not very good in those particular fields, and discovered that the people who are truly lousy and without hope in said field do not have the neurological tools required to even KNOW that they're lousy within that field. For instance, someone who is unhappy with their guitar playing is able to recognize that their music is not as they'd want to hear it – which allows them, if they're so driven, to learn how to improve what they're doing. Whereas someone who is a horrible player but thinks they're awesome will never know that they're horrible, and never be able to figure out how they can improve, and will therefore move throughout life playing guitar, oblivious to how they're setting other people's teeth on fire. (This explains some of the folks you run into at open stages, but I digress...) This little tidbit of information has proven helpful with my cello students, for instance, who lament that they can't play well – and I can tell them that hearing it's not as they want it to be means that they CAN play well, they just need to work on a few things. And those who come for an introductory lesson and can't hear that they sound like a dying goose get sent along to another teacher. This may seem to be a non-sequitor, but I'm certain the more observant of you can see the parallels between this little anecdote and... well... KYLE.]
After spouting off this little tidbit of "wisdom", Kyle strutted and pranced around like he'd said the most deep and intelligent thing known to the universe, completely oblivious to the way my throat was attempting to work its way out my eyeballs. Or perhaps he noticed and thought it was awe...? I shall never know, because he was fortunately called away for something before my throat could escape.
Breathe. Cry a little. Breathe again.
BUT...
Then he came back. And the leakage continued.
Remember the missing power boat lamented in earlier paragraphs, and how it had taken away the Inn's water sports offerings? And how we had supposed it might have been sold off or beached due to financial constraints? Remember that? Well, our suspicions that it was a victim of tough financial times was in error. You see...
THE OWNER ***GAVE*** THE INN'S POWER BOAT TO KYLE!!!!! Yes, the Inn's water sports offerings had been decimated because the new V.P. wanted a new toy and Ryan gave it to him. Because... I dunno... private school?
Further leakage revealed that Ryan was now living about an hour and a half away in Huntsville, in a home that cost him over two million dollars. TWO MILLION DOLLARS. Can't afford to ensure the health and safety of his staff (or guests, for that matter), or the little complimentary niceties, or a teensy bit of air conditioning in an extreme heat warning, but can afford a two-million-dollar home far, far away (plus at least 3 hours of gas per day for his breakfast schmoozes). SERIOUSLY?!?!? (It made me want to steal some towels, but... I'm too honest, plus it would probably be a staff member who got the blame.)
So... putting the pieces together, it seemed we had two of yer friendly-neighbourhood second- (or perhaps third-)generation rich boys whose parents may have understood the nature of hard work, but who themselves understood only dollar signs and big toys, and were behaving like entitled little brats. Never-neverland twits who want to prove themselves in the real world, but don't have a freaking clue how to work in Hospitality. (One of the owner's oft-repeated talking points, when guests who apparently already knew him asked why he wasn't still running the camp his family owned, was "camping is all about making the parents happy and the kids happy, and who wants to deal with that?!?" – a diamond-encrusted philosophy he's apparently extended to his new endeavour, as he hired the guy who thinks Hospitality is exactly the same as I.T.)
It was settled, we weren't going to book ourselves in for next year until we were 100% sure that there were still some of the Last Ones Standing left in the spring (but we weren't terribly convinced they'd last).
Devastated at the loss of "our" home-away-from-home, we couldn't concentrate on the pool game, so took our Honey Browns out to the patio, to nurse our wounds and mourn what the previous owner, James Orr, had built up over his 34 years of management. I can only imagine the despair he must feel, seeing all his hard and love-infused work had created starting to crumble away (along with with the floor) into ruin.
But the story was not over.
We so wish it were, but the story is not over.
Yes, the nail had met the hammer which had in turn met the coffin, but there was still the giant hole to dig, in which to plant the coffin and then bury in mounds of dirt. And then maybe stick some dynamite down and blow the whole thing sky-high.
There had been a couple sitting at another table when we sat down at the patio. We hadn't seen them before, and thought they must be new guests.
Once again, our assumption was in error.
For a mere few minutes after we sat down with our Honey Browns and started lamenting the demise of our beloved Sir Sam's Inn, Kyle and Ryan brought their own set of drinks and sat down at the table with them, behaving kind of like the drunken boors you find at the cheap-ass discount all inclusive island vacations, who have had just a few too many free drinks out of pineapples... only there were no pineapples in sight.
So while we tried, desperately, to NOT hear them, it was impossible to shut them out. Ryan and Kyle were regaling the anonymous couple with the details of their new partnership at the Inn, frequently punctuating the details with the oh-so-subtle sound of winning slot machines. Loudly. In front of not just us, but a lawn, pool and patio full of their paying customers.
"We're sitting on a GOLD MINE here – KaCHING!" "Every time I see someone pulling into the parking lot, I hear: KaCHING!" "The Spa alone will attract lots of people here, and then, KaChing, KaCHING!"
I swear, we had to hear the word "KaCHING" uttered at least thirty times in the twenty minutes we could bear sticking around. Before retreating upstairs to pack, and try not to be sick to our stomachs before our final dinner – and it was definitely our final dinner.
The arrogance, and Greed, and the fact that they didn't have a single brain cell in their heads that told them they might want to keep their voices down in front of the people who were being used for their sorry-you-have-such-a-lousy-self-esteem-but-surely-you-took-psych-101-and-know-this-sounds-really-bad ego- and wallet-boosting. Including the sixth-timer VIP's who had just provided a full week's worth of KaCHING to these spoiled little babies.
We fell in love with Sir Sam's Inn on our honeymoon in 2010. We've brought friends here, we've highly recommended it to other friends (and everyone who's been reading our Food & Beverage reports over the years). The biggest attractions when we first got to know it were the way guests were treated, the eagerness of the previous owner and staff to make sure we felt like VIP's even on our first visit, the fact that guests had to conspire to find something outlandish for anyone to say "no" to, the staff retention and community engagement, and the obvious joy and pride everyone had in making sure we were all spoiled rotten.
But this is no longer a place that treats its staff well. This is no longer a place that treats its guests like... cherished guests (to be clear: talking about the owning partnership, not the staff). This is a place owned and run by two rich brats trying to score a few more KaCHING!'s with the least possible effort. This is no longer our home-away-from-home. And we cannot, in any conscience, recommend it to anyone else.
Chris, the former manager who we (and all the staff) loved so very much came by on Saturday night to see us, but missed us, so he came back Sunday morning to make sure he caught us before we left. There was no KaCHING to be gained by this, there was nothing in it for him. He came to visit because of the relationship that had developed over the years. Gordo, the manager-on-leave-because-of-his-work-related-injury wanted to meet us for coffee earlier in the week, not because he wanted anything from us (in fact, I'm pretty sure he bought the coffee), or that he thought he could get some KaCHING!, but because a relationship had developed between us last year, and we were all sad he was missing our annual visit. THIS is what running a successful Inn is all about – not the KaCHING, but the people.
We've actually been fantasizing about just staying home next year, but inviting our favourite Sir Sam's people to our house for a visit. I'm sure they'll all be quickly snapped up by other resorts who understand quality, so it's probably not feasible, but... a nice fantasy. ? We know one of the previous managers has bought his own resort, which we may very well check out instead next year. There are others who have left and are working elsewhere, so we might track them down and see what their new resorts have to offer. Some are conspiring to team up and run their own place – and we're sure they'd do it brilliantly.
Our not-so-secret fantasy would be that the remaining staff organizes a coup, make Mr. "KaCHING", and Mr. "Hospitality is the same as I.T." go KaPUT, and the old guard comes back to restore Sir Sam's to its former glory. Ah, heaven...
We know many of those who have left would gladly return, if those two were out of the picture. We feel exactly the same. As long as they're running things, we're staying the hell away from that sinking ship. We can only pray that, before it is too late, the Inn changes hands to someone who truly cares about both the art and the business of Innkeeping, and that Sir Sam's can become Sir Sam's once more.
We fell out of love with Sir Sam's Inn on our fifth anniversary in 2015. It was a wonderful five years, but it's time to say good-bye. A one-sided relationship isn't a true nor a healthy relationship. Time to find a place that appreciates us for who we are, and not just what we can give them.
Our hearts are open, and we're ready to fall in love again, with the right one.
EDITED:
Just when you thought it couldn't get worse? IT GOT WORSE.