Seven ways I've embarrassed myself in a Tokyo love hotel

I've been using love hotels in Tokyo since my first girlfriend at university showed me how. That was eleven years ago, and I still occasionally do something stupid. Here are seven, in rough chronological order. Most of them I've only told one or two people.

1. The wrong door

My first time. The panel had dimmed the photo of Room 301, which I took to mean "taken." I had chosen Room 302. I did not notice that the pneumatic tube at the front counter delivered my key inside a small cylinder labeled 301. I then proceeded to Room 301, where I jammed the key into the reader for ninety seconds while it insistently beeped.

A tired voice came over the intercom, in English: "Sir. Please check the number on your key." I have never recovered.

2. The amenity miscount

A hotel in Kabukicho offered a tray of complimentary skincare samples — or so I assumed. They were listed on a small laminated card by the bed, each priced at ¥1,200 to ¥3,600. I used four items. My final bill was ¥9,400 more than expected. The woman at the automated payment pod did not, as I half-hoped, come out from behind the frosted window to console me.

3. The extra-towel phone call

There is an intercom by the bed in most Tokyo love hotels. I used it, exactly once, to request an extra towel.

Within sixty seconds a hand emerged through a small sliding panel beside the door, holding two folded bath towels and a bottle of mineral water I had not asked for, no face, no greeting. It was the single most sci-fi moment of my life and I will never forget it.

4. The karaoke incident

Most themed rooms come with a karaoke setup. I did not know that the hotel's soundproofing, while serviceable for most purposes, is not calibrated for a duet of Spitz's "Robinson" at approximately the maximum volume the machine allows. Three doors down, a couple left early. Two days later we were one-starred on an English-language review site under the handle "Room 302."

5. The projector remote

My girlfriend wanted to watch a movie. The room had a wall-sized projector controlled by a remote with seven buttons and no labels. I assumed, for forty minutes of increasingly desperate attempts, that the projector was broken. It was not.

The room remote and the projector remote were different objects. I had been pointing the television remote at the ceiling.

6. The group

I once tried to book a love hotel with four friends, thinking we could hang out there because it was cheaper per person than any other late-night venue in Shibuya. The check-in panel has a rule: two people. The door sensor tracks this.

We had to split into two rooms, which doubled the bill, and one of my friends spent the evening alone, texting us pictures of his ceiling.

7. The lost wallet

I left a wallet in a hotel last spring. Retrieving it required calling the hotel, being asked for the exact room number, being informed they would not confirm whether such a wallet was found because that would violate the privacy policy of a previous guest, and finally being told to come in person.

When I arrived, they put the wallet on the counter without comment.

The thing about love hotels, more than any other part of Japanese hospitality: they will not help you save face, but they will not take it from you either. I respect this deeply.

What I've learned

If I had to boil all seven into a single sentence: read the key, don't touch the amenity tray, don't use the intercom, keep the karaoke below maximum, test the remote before committing, it's for two people, and take your wallet. The hotels will handle the rest. They always have.