A wheelbarrow on gravel

Some time ago, I stood in the shower, unable to hear much beyond the water falling over my ears. I made the mistake of checking my watch; it was 9:26 and checkout was in 30 minutes. "I better get going." I closed the tap and the world resurfaced.

As I was finishing up, I heard a wheelbarrow on gravel making its way around our cabin. Then it stopped. Odd. I carried on with the bed and the dishes, while Lindl did her makeup.

While packing the car, I spotted the wheelbarrow and shovel. "Ah, it's the cleaning team." I get it, we're in the way now.

Earlier, at breakfast, I asked Lindl what she would do if we could check out later. She'd climb back in bed and just chill. I imagined doing the same, but not that day. Our checkout was at 10am and that wasn't going to change.

We locked the door behind us and walked down to our car at 9:59, just in time for our fireplace to be cleaned.

The problem isn't checking out at 10am. Even if the wheelbarrow arrived at 12:37, we'd have felt the same. The problem is that 10am marks the moment you stop being a guest and start being in the way. Tonight is sold, the reset has to start, and a man still in the shower at 10:15 is no longer a guest; he's a delay.

In the hospitality industry, a delay is waste, and hotels have spent decades eliminating empty nights.

A yield manager will tell you an empty night after every checkout adds up to 70 nights a year. That bill is fake. An empty night only costs money if someone wanted to check in that same day. Outside December, almost nobody wants to. I built a small simulation of our booking year to check: the number comes out closer to 18 nights. (The other fifty-odd stay empty too. They just weren't going to sell anyway.)

Still, two and a half weeks of lost revenue.

Or, two and a half weeks a year so that nobody's last morning ends with a wheelbarrow rounding the corner. We're not trying to fill 365 days; we're trying to be worth remembering, and the last morning is the part people remember.

Lindl and I decided that we won't sell the night after checkout. Not sometimes; after every stay.

I wonder how people would feel about it. What would they do differently? Perhaps go to bed later. Drink more wine. Have long conversations until the early morning hours. Sleep in. Ease into mid-morning. Have good bread with butter and cheese for lunch. Perhaps go to the beach one more time.

What would you do?