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.

This very cup, holding this very fine pen, sat on a desk in our room. The coffee cup was from the hotel’s restaurant. The pen is our own.

When we returned to our room, housekeeping had straightened up and the cup was gone. So was our pen. Stretching a bit, I can understand that the maid might take the cup and return it to the property’s restaurant, even though it was being used (as a pen-holder). But how could she take the pen along with it? Is she blind? Was she so rushed that she didn’t notice? Didn’t it rattle or clink as she carried the cup away?

She returned the pen eventually, before we had to ask for it.