8 hotel behaviors that quietly tell staff to skip your upgrade

Let’s be honest: most upgrades aren’t magical surprises—they’re human decisions.

A real person at a real desk is scanning first impressions, stress levels in the lobby, and a hundred tiny signals about who will be easy (and delightful) to look after.

Years of business travel taught me that the little things we do at hotels tend to echo. Sometimes those echoes unlock perks. Sometimes they quietly shut doors.

I’m not here to shame—just to translate the unspoken language of hospitality so you can stack the odds in your favor. Below are eight subtle behaviors that often tell staff, “Not this guest, not today,” plus what to do instead.

1. Leading with entitlement instead of rapport

“Do you have any upgrades for me?” isn’t the problem. The problem is the vibe.

When the first words out of your mouth sound like a demand—or worse, a threat to “take it up with corporate”—you’re signaling future friction. Front-desk teams are triaging complex inventory, late check-outs, and VIP arrivals. If you open with a transactional tone, you get treated like a transaction.

I like to start with something simple and human: eye contact, a smile, and a line that shows I see their world. “You all look slammed—thanks for getting me checked in.”

That small relational deposit makes any subsequent ask feel collaborative, not adversarial.

2. Treating the line like a suggestion

We’ve all seen the lobby hoverer—the person who drifts toward the desk, inches past the stanchions, and interrupts a check-in with a “quick question.”

Staff notice who respects the flow. Cutting in or sighing dramatically about the wait says, “My time matters; yours doesn’t.”

If the line is long, I use the pause to prep. I pull up my confirmation number, loyalty ID, and a calm request. By the time it’s my turn, I’m low-friction.

That alone puts me in the “easy to help” bucket—which is exactly the bucket upgrades come from.

3. Staying glued to your phone at the desk

This one’s sneaky. You’re not being rude on purpose—you’re forwarding a meeting link or replying to your sitter.

But to the person checking you in, a phone barrier makes it harder to verify details, confirm preferences, and sense your tone. Missed questions lead to mistakes. Mistakes lead to complaints. Complaints lead to, well, not the corner suite.

My rule: phone away for five minutes. I look up, learn their name, and actually listen. That human connection is often the difference between a room and the room.

4. Turning small charges into big battles

The moment a guest argues loudly about a credit card hold, a resort fee, or a 7 a.m. check-in that isn’t guaranteed, the mental note gets made: “High-touch, low-satisfaction.”

That’s the opposite of upgrade energy.

This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t question a charge. It’s about how. I’ll say, “I might have misunderstood—could we look at this together?” The tone invites a solution.

Nine times out of ten, the agent finds a path—waiving something small, moving me to a quieter floor, or flagging me for a space-available bump if one opens. Polite curiosity beats public combat every day.

5. Being kind to managers but curt with everyone else

When a guest is warm with the front-desk manager but brusque with bell staff or housekeeping, that split-screen courtesy travels fast.

I’ve had bell attendants save my conference day by fetching an HDMI dongle or steering me to a quieter workspace near power outlets.

I’ve had housekeepers leave an extra chamomile when they heard my cough. Those folks have more soft power than you think. If you’re generous with everyone, everyone becomes part of your team.

Practical tip: learn one name and use it once—“Thanks, Maria; I appreciate your help.” It’s respectful without being performative.

6. Making sprawling, vague pre-arrival requests

I love a good pre-arrival note.

But when we send a multi-paragraph wish list—late check-in, early check-out, foam pillows, feather pillows, high floor, low floor, “quiet but near the elevator,” bath salts, blackout drapes, and a view of the river and the city—we inadvertently mark ourselves as impossible to please.

Staff might still try, but they’ll reserve limited upgrade inventory for guests whose expectations they can meet.

What works better? Clarity plus flexibility.

I’ll write: “Flying in for meetings and sleep matters more than views. If a high, quiet floor is possible, wonderful. If not, please prioritize a room away from the elevator over an early check-in.”

That tells them which variables to optimize—and that I won’t meltdown if everything isn’t perfect.

7. Leaving public spaces a little worse than you found them

Upgrades aren’t a reward for being tidy, but patterns do get noticed.

Draping towels over fitness machines, abandoning room-service trays in the hallway for days, or treating the breakfast area like a free-for-all sends a signal: you’ll require extra cleanup and extra reminders.

The more staff attention you consume, the less likely they are to burn limited goodwill on premium rooms.

I treat common areas like a neighbor’s living room. Wipe the machine. Consolidate plates. Tuck tray tables out of footpaths. It’s not about virtue—it’s about showing you’re the kind of guest other guests are happy to be upgraded next to.

8. Forgetting that “please” and “thank you” are operational tools

Etiquette isn’t fussy. It’s efficient. In hotels, basic courtesies reduce friction, build rapport, and make it safe for an employee to go the extra mile on your behalf.

When I ask about an upgrade, I frame it like this: “If space opens up, I’d love to be considered for a higher floor or a quieter room. Totally understand if not possible—either way, thank you for checking.”

It’s sincere and gives them an easy out. If they can’t offer it now, I’ll often get, “Let me add a note in case something frees up.” That note is currency.

A mindset shift that quietly earns upgrade energy

Quick personal share: I’ve mentioned this book before, and I’ve just finished it.

Lately I’ve been experimenting with a gentler, less performative way to travel—less “perfect guest” theater, more grounded presence.

A lot of that came from reading Rudá Iandê’s new book, Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life. His insights reminded me that the lobby is just life in miniature: nervous systems bumping into each other, all of us wanting to feel seen and safe.

One line I underlined fits hotel life beautifully: “When we let go of the need to be perfect, we free ourselves to live fully—embracing the mess, complexity, and richness of a life that's delightfully real.”

The book inspired me to stop chasing “flawless guest” points and start showing up calm, curious, and real. Ironically, that energy leads to smoother interactions—and yes, more unexpected perks—than any rigid script.

Tiny ways this shows up at the desk:

• I breathe before I speak and check in with my body, because as the book emphasizes, our emotions are messengers, not enemies. If I’m anxious from travel, I name it to myself and choose a kinder tone.

• I ask for one clear thing (sleep, quiet, or view), not a laundry list—because I’m not trying to look perfect; I’m trying to be easy to help.

• I let the agent be the expert. The moment I stop forcing outcomes, better ones often appear.

If you’re craving a practical reset on how you meet stress—airport chaos, work pressure, or a sold-out Saturday night—Rudá Iandê’s perspective is refreshingly human.

I’m not overstating it when I say his insights have made me a better traveler and a better guest.

If the vibe of this article resonates, consider picking up Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life. It’s a timely companion for anyone who wants to navigate real-world friction (like that lobby line) with more grace and less reactivity.

How to send “upgrade energy” without saying the word

Here’s my simple, repeatable check-in script—the one I use on marathon travel days when my brain is oatmeal:

• Arrive prepared. Loyalty number, ID, and a calm face. If the desk is slammed, I step aside and fill out anything they hand me so our time together is short and sweet.

• Offer a tiny kindness. “Rough crowd today?” or “You’re doing great—thanks for keeping the line moving.”

• Make one clear request. I pick the one thing that matters most (quiet, light, view, tub) and ask about that—not five competing wishes.

• Signal flexibility. “If not tonight, I’d be grateful if you’d note it for tomorrow.”

• Close with gratitude. A genuine thank-you, sometimes a short note in the app afterward. If someone rescues my stay, I tell a manager. Compliments ripple.

Do I get upgraded every time? Of course not. Inventory is inventory. But here’s what I do get: rooms that match how I travel, small favors that add up, and a lot fewer “I’m so sorry; we can’t” moments.

And on the days when the stars do align, those stars tend to align for the guest who made everyone’s job a little easier.

A quick word about tipping, late arrivals, and third-party bookings

Three lightning-round reminders:

• Tipping won’t buy an upgrade, and it’s not expected everywhere. But appropriate, situational generosity (think bell service or extraordinary housekeeping support) communicates appreciation, which builds relationship equity over time.

• Late-night arrivals can be an opportunity. If you’re landing at 11 p.m., be extra human. Night auditors are unsung heroes handling audits, walk-ins, and security. A kind word here has unlocked more quiet-corner rooms for me than any status tier.

• Third-party bookings (opaque sites or deep-discount rates) can limit what the desk can do. That’s not personal; it’s policy. I book direct when an upgrade really matters, or I adjust expectations and aim for the best version of the category I reserved.

Final thoughts

Upgrades aren’t just about status or spend. They’re about the feeling a team has when they see your name in the queue. Are you going to be a calm current or a riptide? Will you leave things a touch better than you found them? Do you make it easy for people to help you?

If you focus on the micro-moments—respecting the line, looking up from your phone, making one clear ask, and thanking people for trying—you’ll be surprised how often doors open.

And even when they don’t, you’ll still have a smoother, kinder stay.

And if you want a companion for cultivating that steadier presence far beyond the lobby, the one I’m recommending (again, because it’s that useful) is Rudá Iandê’s Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life.

It’s grounded, a little mischievous, and—at least for me—exactly the nudge I needed to travel (and live) with more ease.