It was my idea to stay at citizenM for its combination of high design and relatively low rates. Wessel thinks brightly colored, misshapen furniture is all a bit silly, but he does appreciate a bargain.
The fashion forwardness and technological trickery caused us to doubt ourselves in the missing-cover caper and beyond. Every little function in the room (blinds, lights, music, television) was operated by a remote control device called a “mood pad,’’ which didn’t always work. Also taking some getting used to were the toilet and shower, each encased in separate sci-fi glass cylinders half filling the 150-square-foot room.
So anything seemed possible. Perhaps there was a button for the bedspread? Or a dome (a cone of sleep) would cover us when we reclined?
“Maybe we should check out these instructions,’’ I offered, looking at a thick tag hanging from a doorknob stating, “To take full advantage of your room, please read the following,’’ and listing nine categories of instructions. I had brought less reading material on the flight over.
Headings included shower, phone, mood pad, wall switches, TV, lights, music, wake-up calls, and, finally, “extra comfort,’’ which seemed promising but mentioned only that “more fluffy pillows and towels are hidden in your drawer.’’
So where’s the duvet?
Finally I gave up the game and called an “ambassador’’ for help. I wondered if the mood pad — which could change the color of the room lighting from orange to purple to pink with one tap — would flash a red L for loser on my forehead.
It turned out, after all that, that the cover had indeed gone missing and the ambassador had to hand-deliver a new one, just like in the old days.
Next challenge: showering. CitizenM instructions: “1. close door, 2. turn on shower, 3. that feels good.’’
