1. Taking everything from the breakfast buffet

The continental breakfast has its own peculiar theater. Some people load up plates like they’re preparing for a siege—fruit for later, extra muffins wrapped in napkins, jam packets disappearing into pockets.

When you’re paying $200 a night and breakfast is “included,” the logic of maximizing value makes perfect sense. But frequent travelers have internalized a different math: breakfast reappears tomorrow, those muffins turn to sawdust by noon, the coffee in your room is genuinely terrible. The difference isn’t about manners or greed. It’s about knowing the system repeats itself.

2. Photographing the room

The first time I stayed in a hotel by myself, I took photos of everything. The bed. The view. The miniature bottles. The robe hanging in the closet. I posted about the “luxury” of having a workspace.

For people who travel constantly for work, hotel rooms are Tuesday—just offices with beds. But when hotels are rare occasions, they’re worth documenting. The excitement itself reveals the gap in experience. You don’t photograph ordinary.

3. Asking permission for things that are already yours

At the front desk, someone asked if they could have extra towels. Not where to get them—whether they were allowed. The clerk looked briefly confused before kindly redirecting them to housekeeping.

This reveals something about perceived ownership in temporary spaces. When you rarely stay in hotels, everything feels borrowed. Can you really just call for more coffee? Is there a towel limit? Regular guests understand that within reason, hotels want you comfortable. For the duration of your stay, the room is genuinely yours.

4. Being overly apologetic with staff

There’s a particular politeness some people bring to service interactions—deferential, apologetic, careful not to impose. “Sorry to bother you, but…” before every request.

Meanwhile, frequent guests interact with hotel staff more casually. First names, small talk, requests framed as collaborations rather than impositions. Neither approach is wrong, but one signals comfort navigating these spaces. The other signals you’re still learning the choreography of who you’re allowed to be here.

5. Hoarding the toiletries

I used to keep a drawer full of tiny hotel shampoos, collected over years. Using them felt wasteful when I had full-size bottles at home. The little soaps stayed wrapped in their paper like artifacts.

People who travel for work understand these items as Thursday’s shampoo—designed to be used and replaced, nothing precious about them. But when hotels are uncommon, those miniature bottles represent something else: proof you went somewhere, small luxuries worth preserving. The objects become souvenirs rather than disposable amenities.

6. Treating checkout like a hard deadline

Some people pack their bags at 10:45 AM, sitting nervously in their rooms, ready to leave the moment checkout arrives. Others treat 11 AM like a gentle suggestion, requesting late checkout, lingering until 12:30.

Part of this is knowing you can ask for flexibility. But there’s something deeper—a comfort with occupying space you’ve paid for. When hotels feel like rare privileges, you’re conscious of not overstaying. When they’re routine, you understand that the rules bend more than they appear to.

7. Ignoring the amenities you’ve paid for

The gym sits empty. The pool remains undisturbed. The concierge desk waits for questions that never come. Meanwhile, someone’s watching cable in their room, eating takeout they brought from outside.

If you’re unfamiliar with hotels, you might not realize your room rate already includes everything. Or maybe these spaces feel intimidating—you don’t have the right workout clothes, you’re unsure of pool etiquette, you’ll look out of place. So you treat the hotel like an expensive bedroom rather than a full experience. Not unworldly. Just navigating unfamiliar social terrain where nobody posts the actual rules.

Final thoughts

None of these behaviors deserve that look in the elevator. They’re just markers of frequency—how often someone encounters these spaces.

What bothers me is calling any of this “unworldly,” as if sophistication requires a certain number of nights in anonymous rooms with mediocre art. The person photographing their hotel room with genuine delight might be experiencing something the jaded frequent traveler lost long ago.

The ability to find a Tuesday remarkable—that’s not unsophisticated. That’s just honest about what’s actually new.