An ode to old-fashioned hotel keys
Nostalgia, aesthetics, and the charm of tradition.
I have become a swipe snob. If I have to swipe a key card to enter my hotel room, especially a dreaded piece of plastic, I already feel ever so slightly let down—and that my stay is going to be a little bit less luxurious than if I were to have turned a key in a lock.
For me, collecting my keys is one of the most exciting parts of a hotel visit. In a dream world, I'd like to walk up to a Wes Anderson-style front desk and be handed a heavy, artisan-crafted key (are a few tassels too much to ask for?) and not just be shown to my room but talked through it. I like to know every little detail, and the key is, well, the key to the whole check-in experience, setting the tone for the rest of your stay.
Hotel keys are, aside from the staff who greet you, a first impression. But they are more than this, as you'll be carrying your key around with you throughout your stay—in your pocket, in your bag, placing it on the table at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Intrinsically linked with your room number or suite name, it is a part of your holiday identity. It is a constant reminder of where you are staying, and in my opinion, one of the most important (and often overlooked) pieces of brand collateral for a hotel to get right.
Creating a beautiful set of keys (ideally individualised and in keeping with the room design) invites guests into a world of beautiful branding. I always appreciate the branded stationery on my bedside, so why not tie this in to another very tangible object—one which is the guest's point of access, the very portal into their entire experience. In the words of travel connoisseur and all-round aesthete Robyn North (@rozzad), "Chances are, if you have a nice hotel key, I'm going to take a film snap of it."
A case in point that the look and feel of a hotel key matters, especially to visually-driven, creatively-minded guests. Perhaps it also comes down to the difference between arriving at a hotel and feeling at home. You wouldn't access your house with a key card or enter at the touch of a button, would you? Maybe you would, but your life is clearly more technologically advanced than mine.
Maybe it's the nostalgia (like Robyn's film snaps) for a world of grand hotel rooms unlocked by gilded keys, in a time when technology wasn't at the forefront of a hotel experience that appeals to me so much. Of course, there is a place for the futuristic, robot-run hotels of Japan, but I'd personally rather stay in a traditional ryokan—so perhaps my preference for old-fashioned keys alludes to my rather romanticised taste in hotels. Give me a crumbling palazzo in Florence, a rambling country estate in Provence, or a swish townhouse in Stockholm. I'd wager these sorts of properties will not only hand you a set of keys (weighted with history, no doubt) but will also have taken great care in the presentation, ceremony, and ultimately, the branding of your arrival.
Yes, I am a bit of a techno-phobe and a traditionalist, but I challenge you to hold back that feeling of satisfaction when a classic, clunky key clicks into place and you open the door to your next stay. It's a feeling that quite literally holds the key to my hotel-loving heart, and I always feel a pang of sadness once I empty my pockets and slide those keys back across the desk. It's a physical goodbye, a tangible departure, and leaves you thinking, 'until next time'. I've never had such an attachment to a swipeable card, and doubt I ever will.