Yesterday I heard from a hotelier overseas. That is not at all unusual, but this was a letter from Mr. Nasry, the general manager of a hotel that is just a five-minute drive from Luxor Temple in Egypt, perhaps we might say a stone's throw.
His hotel is one that I have never booked and, quite frankly, one that I fear I never will. But Mr. Nasry's kind letter shed some light on how the drama of local political events can cast a shadow over the future of a small, family-owned business.
I've read it more than once because it is a symbol, I believe, of what can happen when we turn our backs on a part of the world where strife is rampant, though perhaps not as rampant as portions of the mainstream press would have us believe.
I've been asked for business from hoteliers in the past. I've been shown more iPad slide presentations of hotel bathroom renovations than any mortal should have to watch. I've lived the suite life, and I've done my share of student hostels. I've helped hotels with their marketing, and I've shared many of my hotel rooms with my readers.
I've been fortunate to meet many of the legendary hoteliers, and all were gracious in their expressions of appreciation for any little business we might have sent their way. But, until now, I have never been begged for business. And, I must confess, it is a bit unsettling.
The entrance to the Gaddis Hotel is located between two shops and looks very much like a concrete condo building from the early '50s. Pack it up and change the stores on the first floor, and it could fit into any number of urban landscapes in the U.S. I can see it sitting on a corner in the Bronx.
The letter had a title: "Let us start serious business." I wanted to share portions of the letter with you because I have never received one exactly like it. There is something sad and poignant about its sense of urgency, but there is also strength in the resolve of the "team at Gaddis Hotel." The footer along the bottom of the letter reads, "We are three, but we act like five." That is a sentiment with which we can all identify.
The letter thanks me for my past business and then points out "since the first booking we got nothing more." Actually, there never was a first booking.
But then there is a rather sudden shift in mood as the letter goes on to advise me that "I am totally dependent on you, and this is a matter of serious business, so either you help me, my property, my team and all colleagues to survive or we will be in hard situation in different sides as economic, financial ..."
Now I know the English here is not perfect, but the words were still impactful.
In times of unrest, what happens to the local tour operators, the drivers, the porters and the employees of small hotels who are totally dependent on tourist dollars? How do they survive?
Where tourism is traditionally the No. 1 industry, as it is by a wide margin in Egypt, the little stories of suffering will go largely unnoticed.
Where do those who are employed at a small, largely empty hotel go when there simply are no tourists left?
Who in the States will help them? And how long is the tourist's memory? Will the troubles in Luxor soon be forgotten in this age of endless streaming of repetitive events?
And now, with an uncertain political future -- and the very real possibility of a government led by religious conservatives, opposed to Western dress for starters -- will Americans be returning to Egypt in the foreseeable future?
We just don't hear much from the lower rungs of the tourism ladder. But Mr. Nasry knows his is a desperate situation. His words are so different from what we would normally hear from Savile Row-suited management of the hotels where we typically book our clients.
In nearby Kuwait, we learn that the Hotel Missoni is now picking up guests at the airport in a Maserati, making for a more stylish arrival.
There are no such concerns on Khalid Ibn El Walid Street at the three-star Gaddis Hotel.
As Frommer's reports, "The beds are hard, and the rooms are a little shabby, but the pool is pleasant." But there is also this: "... with basic clean rooms ... the Gaddis is a definite possibility for a good midrange hotel."
I have discovered that the Gaddis family poured some of their savings into a renovation three years ago. The rooms are now less shabby, and the beds have been replaced.
But running a small hotel in Egypt without the benefit of marketing funds is no easy task. This hotel and tens of thousands like it around the world are struggling to survive.
The letter ends with a request: "Let's start doing this right now. Save our times, jobs, firms. It is getting serious, so please help us."
I wish we could. But sadly, we can't.
Sometimes I think that travel is divided into those who can afford to travel well and those who live on the charitable donations of those same travelers. It seems that every luxury travel company now has some orphanage or conservancy that it supports. But very little is ever said about the small-business people in far-away lands who suffer a slow death when conditions force tourism to literally die on the vine.
There is one final line in the letter I received from the Hotel Gaddis. It appears to be the small hotel's marketing slogan: "Just dream and let us realize your dream."
If only it were that simple.
Contributing editor Richard Turen owns Churchill and Turen, a vacation-planning firm that has been named to Conde Nast Traveler's list of the World's Top Travel Specialists since the list began. Contact him at rturen@travelweekly.com.