The last thing I expected when I rolled into the parking lot of a Marriott Hotel a few miles from the Denver airport late Friday night was a security checkpoint and a full inspection of my rented Toyota that included a none-too-Rover-ish dog sniffing suspiciously for, I don't know -- that half-full bottle of after shave I cleverly slipped past security in Newark?
Maybe there was a warrant out for the guy, me, who had chastised the Avis employee for trying to bill for a vehicle upgrade that had unequivocally been turned down (a chronic problem, I have learned, with Avis people, who then claim they didn't hear correctly or cop the plea of being a trainee). No, they weren't on to me, thankfully. Cleared by the dog, I proceeded to the lobby, where a small army of security was camped out.
"Something going on I should know about?" I asked the woman at the front desk.
"Oh, no, sir," she said. "But congratulations, with tonight's stay you're about to make Platinum."
Maybe there was a warrant out for the guy, me, who had chastised the Avis employee for trying to bill for a vehicle upgrade that had unequivocally been turned down (a chronic problem, I have learned, with Avis people, who then claim they didn't hear correctly or cop the plea of being a trainee). No, they weren't on to me, thankfully. Cleared by the dog, I proceeded to the lobby, where a small army of security was camped out.
"Something going on I should know about?" I asked the woman at the front desk.
"Oh, no, sir," she said. "But congratulations, with tonight's stay you're about to make Platinum."
