Hospitality Is A Feeling

Three decades inside hotels. Not visiting. Living them. 265 hotels in Manhattan. Never the same one twice. Nights logged across 88 countries, 49 states. The Ritz in Paris. Riads in Marrakech. Ryokans in Kyoto. Idaho roadside motels. Always one night. Always moving. Because I’m not hunting perfection. I’m hunting the spark. That rare moment when a hotel makes you feel something.

Here’s hospitality’s dirty secret: most hotels make you feel nothing. Pretty boxes built for Instagram. Empty inside. They chase trends. Hire consultants to package vibes. They fail. Goosebumps don’t come from thread count. They come from humanity.

Hospitality is theater. Your lobby becomes the stage. Stone, steel, and fabric write the script. Your team plays the cast. But great shows aren’t about set design. They’re about that moment when performance connects and audiences leave changed. Guests who leave untouched? You’ve wasted their ticket.

I’ve felt it happen. Morning prayers drifting through a riad’s courtyard, waking me with more grace than any alarm. Silence in a Kyoto ryokan where stillness spoke volumes. A dive motel clerk in Idaho who handed over his umbrella because he saw rain coming. None of these moments involved luxury. All involved humanity.
We confuse efficiency with excellence. Too many hoteliers obsess over apps, gadgets, gimmicks. “Look how seamless our check-in is.” Seamless? So are flights, gyms, dentist appointments. Seamless doesn’t stay with me. Belonging does.

Great hotels are messy with feeling. They trip you up. Stop your scroll. Make you cry in strange places. Turn strangers into family. They become temples of memory. Classrooms of empathy. Reminders that travel should transform you, not just entertain you.

I’ve watched cycles come and go. Design trends. Loyalty programs. Gimmicks dressed as strategy. Every time, the same truth emerges: hospitality isn’t service. It’s emotion. You don’t manage hotels. You direct them. Like theater. Every check-in, drink poured, pillow fluffed becomes a scene. Every employee an actor. But guests must leave with more than receipts. They need stories.

Think about your travels. What sticks? Was it 600-thread-count sheets? Or the concierge who noticed you looked lost and walked you to dinner? The espresso machine in your suite? Or the barista who remembered your name? You remember people. You remember feelings. You remember belonging.

I’ve stayed where CEOs, celebrities, heads of state passed unnoticed. I’ve also stayed where night clerks with zero training in brand voice or customer journeys delivered more humanity in one sentence than global chains with billion-dollar budgets. Guess which ones I remember?

Hospitality isn’t about scale. It’s about soul. If you’re in this business, that should terrify and liberate you equally. Terrify because you can’t fake it. Liberate because you don’t need marble lobbies or Michelin stars to win. You need heart. People who know how to see people.

Here’s your challenge. Stop chasing shiny objects. Stop obsessing over what AI can automate. Ask the only question that matters: how will this make them feel? Ten years out, what will your guest remember? The app that checked them in, or the human who made them feel seen? The nightstand gadget, or the story they tell friends about how your team made them belong?

That’s the work. Not to impress. To imprint. Move people from transactional to transformational. Remind them that hospitality isn’t an industry. It’s a feeling.

I’m still searching. Chasing the next goosebump. Next throat lump. Next flash of belonging.

The truth: hospitality done right isn’t service. It’s salvation. Don’t settle for guests. Create believers.