I pull quickly across two lanes of traffic to make the left hand turn – I should have paid more attention to the distance when I copied the directions down from map quest. It’s followed by another unexpected left, and there I am, pulling up in front of the Westin hotel. It’s tall and grand, with revolving doors. A man in a double breasted tunic with gold trim greets me with a smile, as I roll down the window.

“I’m here to meet my brother – he’s staying at your hotel – could you please tell me where to park.”

“It’s valet only.”

Valet only. Huh. Interesting. I take in the situation. I’m pulled up behind a lovely, shiny, black Lexus. I feel sweaty and gross, with wind-blown hair, from the air condition-less drive, and my belongings are packed in a wicker basket that’s sitting on the back seat. I’m feeling so conspicuous – I want to blink my eyes and turn my pumpkin self into something remarkable and grand.

He can probably tell just by looking at me, but I croak out, “I’ve never used valet parking before…?”

His name is Carl, and he’s very kind. He explains how the whole thing works. He doesn’t even bat an eyelid when I pull my non-luggage from the backseat (why can’t I just consistently use a rolley suitcase like everyone else?) I leave my keys in the ignition, he hands me a little card, and that’s it. No worries. For $40 a day, you can have several men drive your car in and out of some secret lot under the hotel.

I kind of liked it.