That's me. I always wanted a nickname and "Señor Soap" is as good as anything.
Some people choose hotels based on the view or the friendliness of the staff. When I go to Las Vegas, I stay at Treasure Island because of the soap. I know this sounds crazy, but trust me. They have great soap. It's an oatmeal-almond bar that has little flecks of, well, oatmeal in it. I don't generally like my soap to be permeated with food matter, but in this case it works. This oatmeal soap smells great, lathers up well and it's larger than the usual miniscule hotel soap bar.
The last time I stayed at Treasure Island, I brought home enough soap to last me a year. I was really bummed when it ran out.
Now don't get me wrong; I don't steal soap. I gather it. I prowl the halls looking for housekeeping carts and kindly request extra bars.
Most of the housekeepers at Treasure Island are of Mexican extraction. Some don't speak English too well. So negotiating for extra soap can be confusing.
I approached a housekeeping cart on my floor and asked the maid if I could have a few bars of soap.
"I leave already in your room," she said.
I know, I told her. But I'd like a few extra. I want to take it home with me.
She looked at me strangely and handed me one bar. I asked for a couple of more. She thought this was extremely strange.
"Just what is your game, buster?" I could tell she was thinking.
She handed me a few more. I smiled and scurried back to my room and dumped the bars in an empty drawer.
That was my plan, to just hit all the housekeeping carts over the next few days and accumulate one or two year's supply of oatmeal soap.
Word apparently spread. Some maids would hand me soap before I could open my mouth. Some maids seemed to avoid me, hiding in the bathrooms when I knocked on the open room doors.
UNKNOWN to me, word of my exploits traveled to other floors. One day, just on a whim, I stopped one floor down and decided to check out the maids' carts there. I smiled pleasantly at one maid. She smiled back.
"Can I have some extra soap?" I asked.
Her expression changed from happiness to, if not fear, then at least awe.
"Señor Soap!" she said under her breath. She quickly handed me several bars.
The next day I walked past two maids on my floor. They spoke in rapid Spanish but I clearly heard one of them say "Señor Soap" as I walked by. I realized that, like Zorro, I had become a legend among the proletariat. And I kind of liked it.
The thing is, I'm pretty sure the ladies of housekeeping have no idea why I collect soap. I think they would feel better if I just stole towels or light bulbs like normal guests. They weren't used to someone politely asking to be given something as worthless as a couple of bars of hotel soap. Little did they realize that I had a drawer full of the stuff in my room.
I filled my entire carry-on bag with my oatmeal soap stash on the last day of my stay. But walking toward the elevator to check out, I couldn't help stopping at the maid's cart just one more time. I didn't even have to ask. After three days, that particular maid understood the drill. She handed over a bar and I stuck it in my pocket.
I probably won't be back to Vegas for another year. I figure I've got enough oatmeal soap to last me through next fall. It will be interesting to return to Treasure Island and find out if the "Legend of Señor Soap" lives on.
