It's ONLY A TOTE BAG.

“Hola, my friends. Welcome to The Beige Lotus!” The head porter’s greeting was almost as warm as the humid air inside the hotel lobby.

Stepping out of the airport shuttle was an almost spiritual experience. We’d narrowly escaped the clutches of Virginia’s particularly vindictive winter (“How about snow? But not like, cute, keep-Olaf-alive snow. Like, DiCaprio slowly dying in The Revenant snow? Then maybe a light dusting of FREEZING RAIN!”) for a romantic trip in the sunshine of Mexico.

Memories began to trickle back of the kind of person I am when I’m not cold all the time.

(Joy? Is this what… joy… felt like?)

“Gracias, Roberto!” I respond to the porter with my best, most enthusiastic accent, which generally reads, “I took two years of junior college Spanish when I was 17 and my professor cried a lot.”

You should know,-, that one of my most embarrassing toxic traits the fact I will always try to speak the language* wherever I travel. With deeply mixed, often cringey results.

*“Try to speak the language” in this case, is used similarly to how you might say your toddler “tried” to load the dishwasher.

I think this nearly-pathological habit is because I read one time that people from European countries especially appreciate the effort, and where there is a gold star for effort, you will find me.

(Most of the time, the people I’m trying to communicate with are too kind to say, “Please… just stop,” or “Actually, I speak perfect English, why would you assume otherwise?” and thus, I keep trying, as if hell-bent on verbal self-immolation.)

Later on in this trip, a Tulum restaurant owner will explain (in English) that he’s actually French when I try to say goodbye in Spanish. I will far too confidently respond, “Oh, in that case, Ciao!”

(That's Italian.)

I will think about that moment a lot.

But right now, I’m at the front desk of the Tulum-adjacent hotel we’re calling The Beige Lotus (foreshadowing!) and the concierge is walking us through the property amenities.

There are restaurants everywhere — three close to our room near the ocean, two others a golf cart ride away.

It’s 2pm on my body, we’ve skipped lunch, and I am so hungry that all I can think about is our first lunch in Mexico (a fish taco, I think? With an aioli. Chipotle? Pineapple?!) and all of the meals to come.

I snap back to reality juuuuust as the concierge walks us through the resort restaurant options.

Since they’re close to us, I especially take note of the oceanside seafood shack (a poke bowl by the beach will cure me!), the traditional Mexican place, and the vegan smoothie bar I immediately plan to frequent daily.
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Not because I am even a little vegan, but because a $19 smoothie in a small, tastefully branded cup sounds like the ideal accompaniment for these new, leisurely adult mornings where I… go to the gym for a hour?
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Read an actual book in the sun in a bikini? Do not once think about whether three whole children are fed and clothed and in their right minds before 8am?

I feel muscles unwinding I didn’t know I had.
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The concierge finishes her tour. We drop our bags in the suite (*not a flex; a detail that will become relevant), then venture back out to the pool / restaurant complex for lunch I've been dreaming of since weirdly early that morning.

And then I see it.

The body.

Propped up right on the concrete by the pool.

I looked closer and immediately wished I hadn’t.

There were two.

Now, I guess I should clarify — when I say “body,” what I mean is “large chalkboard sign.”

Two of them.

Both which, in large, happy enthusiastic capitals, read, “CLOSED!”

(The exclamation mark just feels cruel.)

One sign is in front of the magical-looking seafood shack on the beach.
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One is in front of my vegan smoothie bar. 😭

If you’re good with numbers, you know that leaves one restaurant open remotely near our room.

One place serving the entire beach and pool area, populated by 93484757 adults and their 29485757 children. ☠️

“Weird that the other places are closed,” I said to Aaron, in my best nonchalant, no big deal, I hadn’t already planned every meal for the next three days because that would be crazyyyyy voice, as we waited for a table to open up.

(Nearby, I heard a clearly-exasperated mom in a visor say, “THEY’RE CHICKEN TENDERS. THEY CANNOT BE THIS HARD.” )

An hour into our wait for tacos, I blew on on the last embers of my optimism.

“Maaaaaybe it’s just the middle of the week and the other places open on the weekends? It’s just odd the lady SAID they were open for lunch if they aren't... Like, why didn't she just tell us?"

I know it gets uncomfortable on the edge of your seat, so I’ll spare you the anticipation:

Despite the hotel’s seemingly full occupancy, those restaurants were mysteriously closed for our entire stay.

And while I wish I could say this had little to no effect on me, I won't lie —
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​Because they suddenly weren’t available to me, I dreamed about those vegan smoothies.
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I pined for the poke bowls.

I was no longer nonchalant. I was fully chalant.

There was no place to get breakfast or coffee without a 15 minute bike ride or rare, unoccupied golf cart. With so many restaurants closed, room service was entirely overrun — not even an option.

I mean, we were very happy because we were in the sun with tequila and each other, but I couldn't understand why the hotel was allowing so many guests to have a lesser experience than the one mentioned in all the reviews.

And that wasn’t the only mystery afoot.

First — despite the hotel’s excellent reputation and many, maaaaany 5-star reviews, the service was oddly… kind of terrible?

Each area seemed significantly understaffed and the staff that was present either seemed stressed or, to use a hotel term, checked out. We’d stayed at a number of hotels in this chain before and were always blown away, so this was truly mysterious.

Second — I saw a number of guests walk by with a cute blue and cream, branded hotel tote bag on their shoulders, a fluffy tassel hanging off the strap.

I’d left my beach bag at home by accident, so finally, tired of schlepping my stuff to breakfast, I asked a lady where she’d gotten her tote.

“Oh, it came with my room!” she told me. “They’re always free if you book a suite here.”

“Oh, cool! We’re in a suite, but they must have forgotten to leave one,” I told her.

“Just call them! I’m sure they’ll bring one over right away” she said, with the confidence of someone accustomed to suites with matching swag.

-, I’ll spare you the entire saga of the tote bag because as Aaron said after three days of my updates — JEN. IT’S A TOTE BAG… but here is the highly compressed version:
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Over the next two days, I spoke to no fewer than five different hotel employees about the tote bag.

Three of them told me one was on its way. (Each time, it... was not.)

The rest told me they'd never had tote bags, tote bags weren't a thing, had I perhaps imagined the tote bags, was I sure I was in a suite and allowed to have a tote bag (?!) and no, no hotel guests had ever tote bags, tote bags weren’t actually allowed at the hotel, oh, wait, THAT tote bag? Yes, there ARE those tote branded bags, and maybe yes they exist but many of them have died from mysterious causes…

Until finally, tired of my own tote bag hyperfixation — and waiting for bags that never came — at last, I talked to the hotel manager, who explained everything in one sentence.

“My apologies, ma’am. The hotel is actually completely closing for renovations next week.”

He went on to explain there were likely no more tote bags in stock because they hadn’t ordered more.

He didn’t have to explain that was why the restaurants were closed.

He didn’t have to explain that was why the service was lacking (because they’d clearly already let so many employees go that the remaining staff was barely hanging on for another week…)

Finally, we understood why our reality didn't match the expectations.

And that gap — between what was promised and what we actually got — turned an otherwise perfectly lovely trip into a trip where I thought about tote bags for seventy-two consecutive hours.

-, I think the marketing lesson here is about as obvious as a dead body by the pool:

When there's a gap between what you promise and what you deliver, it won't matter how good the result is.
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​All your customers will care about is what they didn't get.

Because your clients? Will arrive with expectations.

Expectations built, brick by brick, from your website, your reviews, your inquiry response, your proposal, your pricing page.
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Every word they read painted a picture. And on day one of working with you, they step into your lobby and start looking around to see if the picture matches.

When it does — when the experience they get reflects exactly what they were told to expect (or it's better!)— they can finally relax. Trust is established. Trust gets established. The relationship starts off on the right, well-hydrated, vegan-smoothie-adjacent foot.

When it doesn't — when they expected the oceanside restaurant and got a chalkboard sign — they're not going to be distracted by the pool and the tequila. ​
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They're going fixate on the gap.
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The one between what was promised (explicitly OR simplicity) and what they got.
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Even when everything else is lovely. Even when you're doing your absolute best. Even when the issue is relatively small.

(IT'S A TOTE BAG, JEN. YOU HAVE 30 OF THEM AT HOME.)

We experienced this last week during our Spring launch, when during our live class, I mentioned that people would get a huge discount, several other bonuses, and a pack of a few animations with their purchase.
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To be honest, I'd just had the idea for the free animations pack before the class began and hadn't quite decided which animations to include or how to deliver them. I thought we'd figure that part out later. ☠️

-, do you think for one second people were like "Whoa, shiny big discount code and $250 worth of bonuses? Perfect! I need no further information. I'll just await an email at an indeterminate time explaining everything!"
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NO! Of course not. These people had been promised delicious vegan smoothies a beachside seafood shack free Showit animations and they wanted what they'd been promised.
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We got roughly 100 emails asking when the animations were coming, how they'd be delivered, how many would be included, and which ones wouldn't be.
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The emails continued all week — while I profusely apologized to Christina and Jax for publicly promising what I hadn't yet decided how to deliver — until we provided the clarity needed from the very beginning... and the animations were safely delivered.

*Quick aside — if you're like "Wait, Jen, animations? I also want those!" stay tuned for something coming next week. 👀

Your best bet? (And mine!) Is to be 100% clear about exactly what you offer and what you do not offer and how it will be accomplished.

Tell your people what's included. Tell them what isn't. Tell them how you communicate, what the timeline looks like, and what it's going to feel like to work with you. What used to be part of your package, but isn't anymore. Call out the part of the process that's going to be difficult but you'll get through it together.

Not after they've already arrived with assumptions — before.

It's absolutely vital to be truthful about your limitations, availability, skills, abilities, and offers…
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Because it’s better to start off with a customer who wants what they’re getting than one who’s never going to get what they want.
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​Tell me the vegan smoothie place is closed (or better yet, say it on your website) from the very beginning and I'll never even dream about my sunrise island green with extra pineapple and added protein. ​
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​And yes, a lot of this takes place on your website.
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That's why our templates, unlike most, come not only with general overviews of your services, but also extensive, highly-specific services sales pages designed to answer questions, build trust, add clarity, and eliminate doubts... like this one. And this one. And this one.

It's also exactly why we built the Client Welcome Magazine (for Canva) and the Client Welcome Page (to add to your Showit website).

Not as paperwork. Because we know you need the concierge who meets your clients at the door, hands them the itinerary, and makes sure to tell them which restaurants are actually open — so they can relax, trust you, and stop worrying about the damn tote bag.

Let’s rewrite this story:

The concierge welcomes us, then explains that the hotel will be closing in a week for renovations. As a result, several of the restaurants will be closed for the duration of our stay.

She offers us a $100 restaurant credit and says there will be complimentary margaritas waiting in our room if we so desire.

Since she knows we’re probably hungry, she recommends the best restaurant for that time of day — the one by the ocean pool will be slammed, so we should try the one where we’ll eat breakfast. It's a golf cart ride away, but it has the best fish tacos.

She hands me a complimentary tote bag and hopes we’ll enjoy our stay.

We do.

Your favorite Beige Lotus cast member,

– Jen

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P.S. To the manager’s credit, an hour before we checked out, a tote bag arrived, hung over our hotel door. It was red, printed with jalapeños and a leather strap. It's now hanging in my office.

P.P.S. Enjoyed this story? You know I live for verbal affirmation, so hit reply / send me a quick note and let me know! (I read every single one!)