Monocle Weekend
Edition: Sunday

Some landings are considerably more jarring than others. In this instance, it wasn’t my Swiss A330 touching down in Montréal last Sunday (the captain did a perfect job of gently tip-toeing the big bird onto an icy runway); it was the jolt that came when I pulled up to Ottawa’s Château Laurier hotel two hours later.

If you’ve never been to Ottawa, don’t bother. Of all the G7 capitals, it’s one that hardly conjures up much in the way of attractive images. Don’t believe me? Try it. What comes to mind? What stands out? You see what I mean? No Big Ben, no Lincoln Memorial, no Eiffel Tower. Ottawa might have had an easier time when Germany was partitioned and Bonn was its capital but that credit ran out when Berlin was reinstated as Haúptstadt and the Brandenburg Gate roared back as a symbol for the Federal Republic’s capital.

On arrival at what is supposed to be the city’s top hotel and is the only address for visiting heads of state, diplomats and CEOs looking to strike deals to sell fighter planes and trains to the Canadian government, I’m suddenly on guard. Near the car there’s a young man lurking between the pillars dressed in a black puffa jacket, baggy trousers and chunky black trainers. For a moment he hangs back and then approaches me. “Do you need help?” he asks. I size him up with a degree of confusion. Is he a homeless youth looking for a few dollars by helping me to the front door? As he gets closer, I notice that there’s a logo for the hotel on the jacket – albeit rather small. The driver gives him a nod and a few moments later a baggage trolley comes into view and bags are loaded onto the trolley. “Oh, he works here,” I say to the driver. So much for gold braiding, epaulettes, brass buttons, name tags and other simple signifiers from the language of hotel uniforms.

At the front desk there’s a queue and one person on duty. Five minutes pass and the gentleman in front of me is huffing and shifting his weight from left foot to right. I notice that there are two people at the nearby concierge desk chattering away and oblivious to the growing queue. I walk over and ask whether there might be other colleagues in the back office. “Oh yes, good idea; let me check,” says one before crossing the lobby. We’re at the 15-minute point and a young woman shuffles out. She might still be chewing her dinner and she barely engages while asking me for a credit card and the number of keys I need.

We walked into the bar and the whole space seemed gripped by a similar force that plagued the front desk: no speed, movement or sense of urgency

It’s a hike to the room. Dirty plates line the hallway: some half-finished pasta here, ketchup-caked fries there. The room turns out to be what many in hotel marketing might consider a suite. The proportions are decent; the furniture unremarkable. As I’m travelling with my mother and it’s already late-ish, I consider having her pop down and just ordering room service. But where’s the menu? It’s certainly not in the globally established zone where 99 per cent of good hotels leave room-service menus: on the desk, next to the phone. I start opening cupboards, closets and pulling open drawers. Nothing. And then a grisly discovery: I open the desk drawer to find that it’s full of shredded paper. For a moment it’s exciting. Was this room the scene of an intelligence operation cooked up by one of Canada’s enemies? Was I about to thwart a terror attack? I started to assemble the bits of notepaper and was then jolted by a chill. The bits of paper weren’t filled with letters and numerals that formed an elaborate code from a rogue intelligence agent; they were eerie-looking symbols that looked as though they’d been scratched onto a Fairmont Hotels notepad by someone holding a chewed-through Bic pen – dagger-style. Had the room hosted a satanic trance? Dare I open the door to the second bathroom?

I called down to room service and, after a couple of tries, a rather distant young man picked up the phone. Was he even in the hotel? Was he sitting at home taking orders? Was he at a call centre in Canada’s High North? “Sorry, we don’t have printed menus,” he said. “Can you give me your phone number and I’ll text it to you.” What!? I was so stunned – and scanning the carpet for blood stains while still traumatised by the menacing symbols – that I just went along with his request. After another 10 minutes, there was no text with the room-service menu so I called the duty manager. I described the shredded welcome note (zero interest in my discovery) and the lack of a room-service menu. He might have mumbled something about not being able to text to international numbers (because all of their guests are clearly Canadian or possibly American) but swiftly moved onto coronavirus measures and the dangers of paper. I had to stop him. “Seriously? I think we’re a bit past the pandemic as an excuse for poor service,” I said. “This is supposed to be a five-star hotel and you think it’s acceptable to text a menu to your guests? What about older guests who don’t even have a smartphone?” He then explained that they could print one and bring it up. It was clear that he’d had this conversation before.

Time passed, I called my mom and asked whether we dare leave our rooms and go down to the bar. “Sure, see you downstairs,” she said perkily. We walked into the bar and the whole space seemed gripped by a similar force that plagued the front desk: no speed, movement or sense of urgency. A man-child showed us to the table and barely said a word. His colleagues at the bar were having their own discussion, disconnected from the patrons around them. I started to laugh. My mother urged me to stop. “It’s incredible that this is the best that our country can do for people coming to the capital, no?” I said.

“Yes, shocking,” mom agreed.

We finished our order and downed our wine. It was on my way back up to the room that it hit me. Those shredded bits of paper were somehow linked to the general zombie state that had clearly gripped the hotel and likely much of Canada’s federal government. A lack of momentum, interest and engagement is something that my homeland seems to be struggling with. Perhaps someone can venture back to the drawer in my room and piece together the symbols, unlock the zombie curse and get Canada out of its trance. I’m quite sure it’s all in the drawer, undisturbed since I left it.