Courtney Eldridge

There is a script to hospitality, and it begins before the guest ever speaks. A pause at the check-in desk. A scent diffused through air conditioning. A name, remembered or mispronounced.

I came to this industry not through hotel school or brand manuals, but through syntax. I studied English literature and rhetorical form, not to analyze stories but to build them—quietly, invisibly—into experiences people remember without knowing why.

Luxury hospitality depends on this kind of subtext. The turn of a welcome letter. The cadence of a spa menu. The restraint of a sentence on a placard beside a candlelit pool. These are not accidents. They are narratives, constructed with intention.

I work behind the curtain, where language becomes atmosphere. Where a suite isn’t just upgraded, it’s framed—curated, contextualized, made to feel inevitable.

This is strategy, yes, but it’s also tone. It’s restraint. It’s knowing when less says more.

Because in the end, what the guest remembers is never just the room. It’s how the room made them feel. And that feeling begins with the story you’ve told them—before they even unpack.