A (K)night at Hotel Gloria

Guest Artist Kaya Pfaff works at THE Luxury Hotel in Düsseldorf, Germany.

A (K)night at Hotel Gloria

The luxury hotel towered like a palace at the heart of Königsallee, golden in the late afternoon sun, with turrets that made it look more like a castle than a five-star establishment. People swarmed its gates—an ocean of fans, influencers, camera flashes, and perfume. Everyone came for her.

The world’s most famous popstar, Luxus, was staying at Hotel Gloria. She would have her big concert that evening—the only reason Düsseldorf was suddenly the epicenter of chaos.

Inside the lobby, the air shimmered with tension and overpriced room spray. The velvet-clad couches were occupied by people who seemed to exist solely for gossip magazines.

A Russian oligarch lounged in a corner suite. His bodyguard sat like a hawk by the open door next to him, scanning every passerby as if each tourist might be a secret assassin. No one dared approach.

Next floor up: the South African oligarch. He had a fondness for inviting housekeeping staff in with odd excuses—“I think my lamp is emotionally flickering,” he once said. Mostly, he was just lonely, shrouded in luxury and emptiness.

Poolside, a bohemian band had colonized an entire cabana. Clad head to toe in their own merch, they meditated, stretched, and munched on raw vegetables with zen-like intensity. Their yoga mats never left their sides. Neither did their egos.

The American old-money couple glided through the hotel like ghosts. Botoxed to oblivion, their expressions hadn’t changed since 1996. They offered me a shiny 50-cent tip with a rehearsed, brittle smile: “Thank you for your kindness.” Minutes later, they floated toward the €300 jet-lag massage like aristocrats returning from war.

And then there was the Texanien family.

A vision of chaos: the mother, rail-thin and jittery, paced the halls with a water bottle—super thin cucumber slices visible—clutched in one hand and judgment in the other. Her husband’s hair was slicked back like a car salesman in a courtroom drama. Their two girls, five and seven, wore towering, teased hairstyles and layers of pancake makeup that made them look like tiny grandmothers from a 1960s beauty pageant. Staff trembled at the sight of their buns appearing in the foyer.

Downstairs, the chef was in a passionate entanglement with his apprentice behind the walk-in fridge. He had a wedding coming up. He would cancel it on the day itself, after driving the apprentice home in his convertible at sunrise. Love, in a nutshell.

At reception, a heated debate broke out over a free makeup gift from the boutique next door. Two staff members nearly threw lipsticks at each other over a box of Dubai-imported chocolates.

The ginger-haired receptionist—nervy and pale like a Victorian ghost—had fished the keys to an S-Class Limousine out of the gutter in front of the hotel. Armed with a giant vacuum cleaner from housekeeping, he knelt on the filthy street like a man exorcising a demon. 25 minutes later, soaked and triumphant, he held up the dripping keys like he’d won a medal in madness.

In the restaurant, a man who had devoured four portions of Rehragout now refused to pay: “It wasn’t *good*, okay?” he snarled, slamming his napkin down like a courtroom verdict.

The concierge dreamed of becoming a DJ. During lunch, he talked of Moog synthesizers and Berlin raves. After lunch, he upsold late check-out and caviar spa packages like a kingpin. His apprentice? The golden boy. Always smiling, always helping—until the infamous staff party. After too many cocktails from the flying buffet, he was found vomiting and naked in a restroom stall. Fired by sunrise.

The doorman? Gone. Vanished into the tunnels with seven heavy suitcases, whispering into his walkie-talkie, “On my way.”

Outside, the roar of a Lamborghini mixed with the bagpipes of a street performer. The Königsallee sang a symphony of opulence and madness.

Inside Luxus’ penthouse, a gym was being rebuilt. Literally. Dumbbells. Squat rack. Treadmill. Everything had been lifted nine floors up to her suite. Because stress needed sculpting.

Just days before, a retired soccer star was rearranging the hotel gym with the words, “I need to do my circluit training”—followed by the housekeeping manager running actual circles of anger.

The energy grew tighter. Reporters buzzed on the line like wasps. The secretary rehearsed her one line: “No comment, but we thank you for respecting Miss Luxus’ privacy.”

My hair was gelled back, my uniform pristine—except for a tiny ladder in my black tights. It threatened to ruin everything.

The Texan family finally left for the village. A wave of relief washed over us. We lit cigarettes in the garage behind the kitchen, exhaling pure survival, witnessing the cracky last moves of blue lobsters in the cartons around us.

Then the phone rang.

They forgot a small black trolley.

Panic.

I raced to the entrance. Nothing. No trolley. Only scraps from the frenzy: plastic cups, discarded fan signs, the cold glint of abandoned metal barriers.

I dialed the international number. “Sir, we did not find the trolley—”

“Check the suite. Now. Emergency.”

Key card in hand, I took the golden lift to the sixth floor, its slow ascent like a ticking bomb. When I opened the door, I was swallowed by a glitter storm. Clothes everywhere. Sparkles. Sequins. Lip glosses. False eyelashes.

Fifteen suitcases lined up like a militia.

And there it was. The black trolley. I grabbed it like a lost child and raced it back to the marble lobby.

“They sent an Uber,” I was told. “To bring it to the concert.”

I placed the trolley in the front seat like royalty. The Uber driver was sweating bullets. “Where am I going?”

“Just drive,” I said.

And so he did.

Three and a half hours later. Darkness had fallen. The hotel, finally calm. My shift nearly over.

The Uber driver returned.

The trolley was still on the passenger seat.

“What happened?” I asked, blinking.

He smiled, holding up €600 from the cup holder.

“They didn’t need it anymore.”

“What was inside?”

He shrugged. “A pair of silver glitter high heels.”

I looked at the shoes. All that panic. All that noise. And in the end—just sparkle.

Just silence.

At Hotel Gloria, even the shoes know how to cause a scene without lifting a toe.