Crimes & Misdemeanors.

It's not something I'm particularly proud of, although in my hopes to encourage others to come forward I choose not to conceal it completely. There are some who consider it illegal, others wisely choose to turn a blind eye. Either way, if I were standing in front of all of you in a room today, I would pleadingly ask, "Who among you is not guilty of the same crime?"

I am talking of course, about stealing hotel toiletries.

At issue here is not the occasional bottle of 2-oz. shampoo you tuck away in your purse on a business trip, or the compact sewing kit you brought home for Grandma when you forgot to buy her that Lollapalooza t-shirt she asked for. I'm talking about the kind of ugly behavior when, upon entering a hotel room you push the bellhop aside and make a beeline for the bathroom counter to see what kind of bounty awaits, while your daughters and husband are drawn to the window to take in the view. Their oohing and ahhing over the majesty that is the San Francisco bay is drowned out by the cries coming from the bathroom, "Come look! They've got Aveda in here, and their soap is shaped like a starfish!"

And by the end of your stay, that same counter will lay bare, its entire contents packed neatly beside your skirts and tennis shoes.

The hotels in Japan take the toiletry concept to a whole new level. Along with the usual bottles of shampoo and bars of scented soap you'll find a collection of amenities that makes someone like me feel like they've won the lottery. Standard in every room are four toothbrushes (each with a miniature tube of toothpaste), folding hairbrushes, packs of Q-tips, cotton balls and makeup applicators, and shaving kits. One hotel supplied a facial-care line complete with foaming wash, toner and moisturizer and a kit for men that contained a can of shaving cream and small bottles of aftershave and hair gel. Another supplied ponytail holders along with bobby pins and a makeup mirror.

And none of it excaped my greedy hands. By the end of our trip my suitcase resembled a Rite-Aid kiosk. When Rigel sarcastically mentioned that all I was missing was the bathroom sink, I spent a few seconds mentally calculating its size in comparison to my carry-on bag before I realized he was joking.

I've come to find that my pilfering habit is genetic. In Kyoto, while waiting in a hotel lobby for my sister my niece told me, rolling her eyes upward in the direction of the room, "My mom's up there stuffing the last of the bathroom loot into her bag." I, too, rolled my eyes in disgust but in reality I was wondering if I had time to make a last pass at my room to do some further pillaging. Perhaps I could slip in as the maids were re-stocking and get my hands on just one more bottle of lavender body lotion or shoe buffing pad. When my sister finally came down we had the following conversation:

Me: Did you get everything?

E: Oh yeah. Can you believe the stuff they give you? I've got enough toothbrushes and shampoo to last me the next fifty years.

Me: Me too! I took it all. Everything except the shower cap.

E: Oh no. I never take the shower caps. I mean, that would be tacky.

In our hotel in Tokyo every room had a beautiful lacquer bowl filled with several varieties of green tea. As we were preparing to check out on our last day the phone rang and a whispering voice on the other end said, "Don't forget to take the tea." It was my mom, sounding like Don Corleone ordering his underlings to put the body in the trunk. I took the tea but left the lacquer bowl, knowing that taking it would have put me on a whole other criminal level, up there with habitual nose-pickers and people who open packages and eat while they're walking around the supermarket.

Although I fear passing this gene onto my children, I know at least one of them is safe. Kira would wince and avert her eyes as I shuffled entire trays of product from the bathroom counter into my bag. Both her and Rigel let their disapproval be known when, back in L.A. I modeled my terry cloth slippers from the Tokyo Hyatt. "Omigod. You took those?" (In my defense, they're not very good ones, and the bag they were shrink-wrapped in said "For You.") Kiyomi however, hasn't fared so well. Spurred on by my bathroom ransacking she took to inquiring about other items in the room. "Can I take this?" she asked, pointing to the bedside lamp, and when I caught her trying to shove the plasma TV into her Hello Kitty backpack, well, I have to say I felt so ashamed.

So there's my story. I feel better now, although I can see you all shaking your heads in disapproval. But those of you quick to judge me, just remember this: If there's ever an emergency and you find yourself in my neighborhood late at night, wandering and desperately searching for an all-night drugstore, just stop by my place. I've got a toothbrush waiting for you.

Tweet Pin It