Built into the wall, this spotlit treasure on display in a glass box with an oval opening. Found in our room in Cologne’s lovely Dorint Hotel.

If I’d had a long string of pearls, I’d have rested them in the bowl overnight.

If I’d had false teeth, I might have showcased them here.

If I’d had some udon, I’d have had an elegant bowl to eat it from.

If I’d had a pet mouse, it would have had a home and water source.

If I had a hammer…

But alas… I came unprepared.

Cadiz hotel mystery knobs. What could they be for? They’re way up there, beyond my tiptoed reach. There were no connectors, no hoses—not even a bidet, although they’re de rigueur in Spain.

Any ideas?

Hotels are getting personal.

The Holberg Hotel in Bergen, Norway, wants to be sure its guests know how to do a breast exam.

What the hell happened to the sink? Why is its plumbing all bandaged? Is it insulation in case of a freeze tonight? Are the pipes falling apart? Are they leaky? Anyone have a clue?

I stay in hotels from the top end (George V in Paris, Singita in Kruger) to this dump: Doubletree by Hilton at JFK. Avoid the Doubletree@JFK. Its breakfast is inedible.

“Thief!”

That’s my hotel accusing me, before it even knows me. What kind of customer relations is that? I feel insulted when I find hangers like these in my room.

And I’m inconvenienced, adding further irritation toward the hotel. They’re annoying to use. The kind of anti-theft hangers with tiny hooks to fit thin bars are slightly less pesky—at least they’re not so fiddly to hang.

These hotel hookless hangers (what are they called?) are impossible for drying laundry. Unless you know how…

I know I’m a bit peevish about hotels. You might be too, if you spent 250 nights a year in them. (Hangers are actually pretty low on my long list of hotel gripes. Much worse is an alarm clock that goes off due to a previous guest’s setting.)

Must see: Portrait of a Hanger Thief

We were nearly asleep when the Jacuzzi turned itself on in the bathtub next to the bed. Of course we both flew out of bed, unsure what the racket was, then sure but baffled, then outraged. We couldn’t turn it off.

The East Hamburg Hotel can only be called a designer hotel (whatever that means). Every single item in the room, in the hotel, needs a second look. The bed is a free-standing unit with built-in side tables and lighting. Beside it is a free-standing bathroom counter on which are perched a creature-like mirror and—see the stomach-shaped pewter blob?—that’s the sink.

There’s a shower behind the glass doors and a toilet behind the wooden door. Between them is a huge Jacuzzi bathtub with a panel of intriguing buttons. I’m ordinarily repelled by hotel bathtubs, but we decided to give this one a try. It had a lot of noisy jets, which we soon turned off, opting for peace and quiet, as soon as we could figure out which unmarked buttons to press.

It was late. We’d just been the focus of a large press event. Bob had given a presentation, a series of interviews to journalists, and posed for about 30 photographers. There was a screening of our National Geographic documentary Pickpocket King, and a cocktail party. It was the last night of a hectic week of promoting the film and we had an early flight the next morning. The bath was relaxing. We dried off and fell into the seductive bed, exhausted.

Ten or 15 minutes later, we’re in twilight-land and the tub starts gurgling, humming, splashing, and foaming, as if a poltergeist were bathing. The unmarked keypad was of no use. The tub was filling.

We called reception, already dreading the imminent arrival of hotel staff, further delaying our much-needed sleep.

“It’s just cleaning itself,” front desk staff explained. “It will be finished in ten minutes and turn itself off.”

Nice square sink at the stylish Empire Hotel in Manhattan. Delicious little apples, too.

Another example of form over function though. You can barely get your hands under the faucet, the sink is so shallow.