Beware the Shiny Upgrade

Credit: Jill Wellington/Pixabay

My mother-in-law was a game, world traveler who liked her creature comforts. She’d have ridden a camel through the desert in the hot North African sun as long she could stay at the Ritz Carlton that night. In a room with a view. My vacation plans aren’t quite as luxurious and exotic, although I do appreciate room service breakfast, sheets with a high thread count, and fluffy terry cloth robes... and occasionally good luck falls into my lap.

“A seat with your name on it just opened up in First Class.” Hallelujah. 

“We’re relocating you to a corner suite.” There is a God, after all. 

“It’s your birthday! How 'bout a complimentary Molten Chocolate Lava Cake?!” Duh. 

You’d think I’d be grateful, ecstatic even, about the swanky rental car I scored on a recent trip, but here’s a travel tip: Some luxury upgrades are just, well, “extra” – and not in a good way. 

I checked in online the day before in the interest of “saving time,” arrived on the dot for my reserved midsize whatever, then cooled my heels in the rent-a-car parking lot. Twice I inquired about the delay and was told, “It’ll just be a couple of minutes.” The second time I slinked away muttering “That’s what you said 20 minutes ago.” Frustrated and impatient isn’t an ideal start for a weekend escape, but there I was, running behind, leaning on the handle of my roller bag and wondering if they’d “lost” the car I reserved. 

Cue Seinfeld: “You know how to take the reservation, you just don’t know how to hold the reservation.” 

After a half hour or so, a “manager” approached, rattled off a rote “Sorry for your wait,” and said the magic words: “Because you’ve been so patient, we’re going to upgrade you!” 

Yeah, they totally didn’t have the car I’d reserved. 

The young whippersnapper led me to my luxe sedan, which was a very fancy, super shiny, jet black car the size of an orca. He tossed me the keys and disappeared, leaving me feeling a bit like Elly May Clampett. It’s not that I don’t appreciate a nice car, but I’m a driver of Subarus and Volvos. Safe and practical, not sexy. What says “come hither” to me is a restored, vintage Volkswagen bus or maybe an old Jeep Wrangler, so I was in over my head with this thing that was obviously exorbitantly expensive – not a Bentley but definitely not a product of Detroit, either. 

Now, I’m not afraid of driving or technology (except for AI poaching creative jobs), but I’m pretty sure the dashboard in this leviathan was inspired by SpaceX. I’d need to be an astronaut to figure out the ignition, let alone adjust the driver’s seat, and the “gentleman” who’d so thoughtfully given me the upgrade was nowhere to be found. 

How could I possibly drive this car for the next four days if I couldn’t even turn it on? Steeling myself, I returned to the rental counter, and in my sweetest way asked a young woman there if she could help me, pretty please.

“Oh, I know, this car is a lot,” she said knowingly. Indeed.

She covered the basics, helped pair my phone, and noted that the clear beveled interior trim was supposed to evoke diamonds, which she admitted was rather tacky. The designers of my car could’ve taken a lesson from Coco Chanel: "Before you leave the house, look in the mirror and take one thing off." Maybe this car company has something against the French. 

I prayed it wouldn’t rain or get too hot because there was no way I was going to be able to adjust the AC controls or find the windshield wipers. Of course, this behemoth was so “smart” it may well have just taken care of that on its own, but I’m glad I didn’t have to find out. 

Once on the autobahn, er freeway, I began to realize why my brother, husband, son and nephew have been drawn at various times to this make of automobile. My ride was quiet and smooth, and in no time at all I understood why they all drive so fast. It’s because they can. Zero to 80 in a nanosecond. The guys would probably all rave about the sound system, too. 

By the time I reached my destination, I’d mostly made peace with my luxury upgrade. It wasn’t the car’s fault the rental company fobbed it off on me with scarcely an eighth of a tank of fuel, and I was unreasonably proud of myself for gassing up without incident. 

Then I had to park it. 

As I approached the narrow space in front of my quaint little inn, the IMAX screen on the car’s dashboard came alive using green boundary lines to gently coax me into the spot. When I dared to venture, quite accidentally, outside the lines, the monster picked up its megaphone and began beeping at me in a most threatening way – an increasing level of noise and rudeness which can only be compared to the relentless, pulsing squawk of an MRI machine. So aggro! Clearly, the car was overreacting. Parallel parking would've been Armageddon. 

I never got used to that deafening, panic-inducing parking function… or the cool ventilated seats that had me questioning my continence… or the windshield hologram of the navigation system that was like a hallucination… all of it gaslighting! 

I thought upgrades were supposed to make things easier and more comfortable, but this was like getting food poisoning in the first-class lounge, or bedbugs from the VIP suite. Everything about this car stressed me out. Plus, I felt guilty for tracking sand onto the floor mats. Sure, she’s shiny and pretty and cost more than my first home, but to me this car was a showoff, a Met Gala outfit screaming “Look at me!” 

One bit of travel advice from my mother-in-law was to never accept the first room they assigned you in the hotel. I wish I’d thought of that when I rented this monstrous, bejeweled automobile. Next time someone tries to trick me with rent-a-car upgrade, I’ll refuse to play along. In fact, I’m going to ask for a downgrade. I want less, not more. 

Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll have an old VW bus sitting around. Even better if there’s already sand on the floor. 

Credit: Mary Novaria