Disclaimer: the actual location of this story was Valencia, Venezuela. Caracas is used in the title because it is that nation’s capital and has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
The word ‘Concierge’ always makes me think of the crazy old lady in the Mel Brooks movie ‘The Producers’ (1968 version).
“I’m the consi-urge.” she yells out the window to the two strange men (played by Gene Wilder and Zero Mostel) who ring her apartment buzzer. “My husband was the consi-urge but he’s dead!! Now I’m the consi-urge!” The two men are looking for the woman’s tenant, a playwright who turns out to be a former Nazi. His life has been reduced to feeding birds on the roof of the building every day. ‘All that Kraut does is feed his boyds.’ She yells. ‘Dirty, filthy stinkin’ boyds.’
The two men head up to visit him and call out “Thank you madam” to which she responds: “I’m not a Madam. I’m a conci-urge!’
I guess you had to be there.
Anyhow, I was recently in Venezuela, when I had this interesting episode revolving around the word ‘Concierge.’ Here it goes:
I’m sitting in the hotel lobby, trying to get on the internet. In the right corner of my laptop computer screen, a tiny tornado like symbol lights up indicating that there is wireless signal. Then a message appears telling me that a password is required.
I get up to ask at reception, not overly concerned with the fact that the hotel staff speaks very little English and I don’t speak much Spanish. Surely they must get asked this all the time.
“Hola” I say to the woman at the front desk. ‘Internet password per favoreh.’
“Uno Momento” she replies. She motions to the desk across the lobby. There is a large sign on the front of it which reads ‘Concierge.’ She then points at it and says “Concierge” in a thick Spanish accent.
Figuring the concierge must be more fluent in English, I turn to walk towards his desk and see that there’s no one there. So I go back to my seat and wait for him to show up. A few minutes later, a tall well groomed man in a blue suit is walking toward the desk. I remember him from when we checked in, so I wave to him and he comes over to where I am sitting.
“Concierge” he says to me.
“Hola.’ I say. ‘Internet password, comprende?’
“Si. Concierge” he says again.
“Yes, they told me to ask you” I answer, realizing that I might as well be speaking to him in Farsi. I point at my Apple Powerbook, hoping this will make matters more clear.
“Concierge” he says once more. This isn’t going well.
“Si. Internet?” I say to no response. “Wi-fi? Code? Password?”
“Concierge” he says, which segues into an awkward silence. At that moment, I wish I spoke more Spanish. I do know little bits of several foreign languages but so far have not become fluent in any of them. Sometimes I feel like such a dumb American.
“Concierge” he says. But this time, he is pointing at my screen and says yet again,”Concierge.”
I think to myself: “Hmm. What if…no, let’s see here..This could mean maybe…it couldn’t be. Could it? No, it’s just. Wait a second…”
Without warning, I blurt it out: “Concierge!! That’s it! I’ve got it, right? Concierge! Concierge is the password!!” I point at the little wireless signal indicator and ask in an exaggerated accent “Conci-urge?”
“Si si, senior!” he answers, nodding. As he walks back towards his desk, I enter the password and my internet access is complete. “Gracias amigo!’ I call out, feeling as though I’ve just solved the Da Vinci Code.
Now I’m unable to concentrate because I’m laughing so hard to myself imagining the conversation continuing…
“What’s the password?”
“Concierge”
“Yes, nice to meet you.”
“Concierge.”
“Sir. You’re not hearing me. I just need the internet password.”
“Concierge.”
“Yes. Not everyone gets to be the concierge.”
“Concierge.”
“Congratulations on becoming concierge. You must be very proud.’ What’s that password?”
“Concierge”
“Yes you are the concierge. Can I just have the password?”
“Concierge.”
“Sir?” I’d plead, my voice filled with the tone of defeat.
“Si?” he’d answer
“Did you ever see that Mel Brooks film, ‘The Producers?”