The Bullying Nature of Door Selection
Alternative Title: Being a Karen for Class Consciousness
The keen observer with notice that there is someone with me on this article because she’s essential to the story I’m going to be telling. Welcome Zigzig! Go Check out Disgruntled Diaries. You’ll also notice testimonials with screenshots and hyperlinks of people with their own experiences of door selection. I highly encourage you to read them as you scroll down the article.
Last week, Zigzig approached our friend group with the idea of going to a coastal town in Suez and paying a business for day use at the beach. A group chat was formed, people cleared their schedule and we watched a TikTok slickly showcasing how relaxing this place could be. What a dream for someone as overdue for a beach day as I was. I wanted to have a thousand yard stare and watch the tide rise as cargo ships pass in the distance.
Zigzig, having had the idea, makes a “booking request” so that we could all go. They asked about how old we are, whether or not children would be coming with us, if we have any pets we wanted to bring and all of out social media handles. Big letters appear when you submit to let you know that they need 24 hours to process the request. Fine. Though, zero questions about how we can continue to make this place run which is my smug way of saying that they never mentioned wanting any credit card information. My ears pricked at the incredulity of it all. The only social media site I put any real effort into is Substack and I still don’t take it as seriously as I probably should. My Facebook is set to private, my Twitter is going to die as soon as Elon puts the final nail in that coffin, I have completely abandoned Instagram, I keep my BeReal to people I actually keep in touch with and forget TikTok.
When the moment of truth comes, an email found it’s way to my dear friend with a rejection. They couldn’t confirm us because they’re fully booked. Something about that explanation felt off. It was a Saturday afternoon when Sunday is the beginning of the workweek and it was well after the Eid peak. They demand could not be as high as a Friday or before the holiday. I decided to make my own “booking request” with the same answers, the same links to social media profiles and the same determination that my dorky self will lower her heart rate for a couple of hours. As 24 hours came and went, I did what anyone else would do. I enlisted my mom for help with the language barrier, in case there was one (I can speak Arabic I just don’t like doing it with strangers), and called them to follow up. They didn’t pick up until I called something like fifteen times.
“It’s out in the boonies,” I thought, “Maybe the signal’s bad.”
Finally, a man picked up and I start to bring him up to speed.
“Hello, can you speak English?”
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“I sent in a booking request under my name yesterday and I haven’t heard back yet. I’m not in the country for a long time and I do need to know so I can plan.” This wasn’t a lie. The amount of things I want to do and people I want to see every time I come here means that even a month is jam-packed with plans. The last thing I want to do is snob anyone off because I don’t want to be terrible.
“It takes 24 hours to hear back so you need to wait and check your email tomorrow.”
“I submitted the request yesterday so the 24 hours have already passed and nothing has shown up in my inbox.”
“It takes 24 hours,” he repeats.
I feel my body already stiffening from the stress this is putting me under. I look up from my phone and lock eyes with my mom as she reads my desperation as a plea to take over from here because no one wants to go in circles.
“I am so sorry,” my mom sweetly says, “my daughter is here visiting me for a short time and she really needs some space to relax.” Way to make me sounds like a mess, Mom. “It would mean a lot to us if you could get back to us quickly so she can know as soon as possible.”
“Of course. I’d be happy to.”
“If I may, her friend submitted the same request the day before yesterday for the same time and with the same people and was refused. All of these kids are mild mannered people, from good families and even attended the American University in Cairo. Can I ask why this happened?”
The seconds pass like an eternity as he stumbles over his words. Does this mere employee want to lie to this woman allowing her daughter to make the drive all the way to the Red Sea just to come back having been harassed and shamed for what she looks like and who her friends are? And after convincing her daughter to make the over 24 hour journey with a dog as well. Then it happened.
Dial tone.
It dawned on me. It wasn’t a bad signal or a security issue or any of that nonsense. A quick look at their Instagram page gives it away. They digitally door select because they only want the elite and the attractive. I had encountered one of these business that make people feel less than for being the “wrong” sort of customer. It made me feel cheap and it put a chip on my shoulder. I got angry. How dare they bully my friends who I know to be some of the best people on this planet? Suddenly that determination to relax became a determination to bring them down to my perceived level. And this isn’t a practice that’s even new. It’s been around forever and I never even knew how normal everyone thought it was.
I’m not hot enough, skinny enough, cool enough or chronically online enough for you? My clothes don’t make you think I look attractive enough? You don’t like what I’ve done with my hair? Am I not the right kind of influencer because I don’t like using Instagram or TikTok? I don’t care, nor do I have to, and the degree of my online anonymity is my choice, thank you very much. This transaction can be as precious or as cheap as you make it but I’m still very much the customer here.
I call back to back to back. 32 calls on my log from the first one. A woman answers and my mom orders me to take a deep breath as she speaks into the receiver.
“I called before and I guess the signal got dropped. I wanted to follow up on my daughter’s reservation.” My mom’s tone is a little more stern this time.
“Yes, ma’am. We will check it and call this number back.” We noted afterwards that they sounded annoyed.
Spoiler alert! They never did.
I give them 30 more minutes to confirm me because at this point, they vetted me and they know about the Substack. I call again wondering what’s taking so long and I’m wise that I press that green call button, they press the red decline one because I’m playing the entitled American to a tee. I direct message them on Instagram to let them know that I am not impressed with getting clearly ignored. I wasn’t even being mean to them this entire time I just wanted to talk this through with someone. Anyone. An hour later I get an email confirming the reservation. 4 hours later, I get a message back in Instagram directing me to their booking information as if I didn’t say in the message that I already booked.
When I go to tell my mom that they confirmed my reservation after pestering them for like an hour and a half. She raised a really good point but I was in too deep to take her advice. Whether or not I was going to listen to her she did insist that I absolutely have to write about it. So this week’s post is me obeying my mommy.
“Are you sure you want to go to a place that operates borderline illegally like this? Where does the criticism stop? Do you want to financially support people who do this to others?”
Now here’s the kicker. We get there and check in as if it were a completely normal experience. No one said anything about the entire debacle. Not even an apology. They scan our ID’s, run our cards and take our cash like any other business would. We spend a relaxing day at the beach and I fully realized my “stare at the rising tide” fantasy. It was such a whiplash from having the most avoidant customer service experience of my life to the pinnacle of professionalism. Then we get to see the place and see that it was a ghost town. There was maybe one couple sitting at the beach and a guy sitting at the beach bar waiting to take orders. It was nowhere near fully booked. We stayed there the whole day while the sun shone. Empty still.
The experience with the amenities they advertised were fine. Here’s the thing though, I would have had such a better time had I not had to go through all of that for an answer. I didn’t want to argue, intimidate or threaten anyone to do nothing at the beach and have a slice of pizza with a mango smoothie. It’s the reason why I didn’t namedrop which business did this to me. It’s not worth it to cost someone their job or put the place out of business. Then I would actually be a monstrous human being who doesn’t deserve to go out. Why on Earth did they make me open Instagram and turn my blog into Yelp? I hate Yelp. I don’t want to be this pushy person and I don’t want to have the front desk staff, who I suspect gave me such a hard time in the first place, look at me, the girl who called a whopping 39 times, with sneering curiosity. Being mean to me doesn’t yield the results it might for other people. It just makes me petty and competitive.
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This very well could’ve been a movie & I would’ve watched it 👏