The Suitcase in the Bathtub
The first time I noticed it, I felt a strange flicker of unease—like walking into a familiar song and realizing a single note is out of tune.
Every hotel room I entered had the same peculiar sight: a lone suitcase resting quietly in the bathtub, as if waiting for someone to acknowledge its secret purpose.
Business travelers, families, solo wanderers—it didn’t matter who they were. Each left their luggage there, untouched.
And no one seemed to think it odd.
It was my first week as a hotel housekeeper, and I was determined to be flawless.
I made beds so crisp they could have cut glass, lined up toiletries like tiny soldiers, and polished mirrors until they swallowed light. But the suitcases—those silent guests in porcelain cradles—wouldn’t leave my mind.
At first, I chalked it up to coincidence. Maybe people liked keeping their bags out of the way, or maybe the tub felt like a convenient nook.
But after a dozen rooms, the pattern stopped feeling random. It started feeling intentional. Ritualistic, even.
During our morning briefing, I finally asked.
My coworkers shared a round of knowing looks, and Maria—the veteran with kind eyes and ten years of secrets tucked beneath her apron—smiled.
“Oh, that,” she said, waving her hand. “They’re just protecting their stuff.”
“From what?” I asked.
Her smile deepened, a little sad, a little amused. “Bedbugs. They can’t climb smooth porcelain. Once you’ve had them follow you home, you’ll do anything to make sure they don’t again.”
And just like that, the mystery unraveled.
What I’d thought was an odd human quirk turned out to be quiet wisdom, earned the hard way.
Later that week, I met an elderly couple in one of the suites. Their suitcase sat, of course, in the bathtub.
When I mentioned it, the husband chuckled softly. “We learned that lesson years ago,” he said. “Brought home some uninvited travelers once. Took months to get rid of them. Since then, the tub’s the safest place in any hotel.”
I smiled, this time with understanding.
Now, every suitcase I see in a bathtub feels less like clutter and more like a story.
A symbol of small, silent lessons travelers collect along the road—pieces of caution shaped into ritual.
Travel isn’t just about seeing new places; it’s about learning how to move through the world a little wiser each time.
And when I check into a hotel now, I find myself glancing at the bathtub.
Sometimes, I even set my own suitcase there.
Not out of fear—but out of respect.
Because what once seemed strange now feels sacred: a quiet act of foresight, a whisper of wisdom carried from one traveler to the next.