A few years ago, Canetto and I were in the market for a new bed. We had just gotten married, bought a house and needed a bed. Because I am married to Mister we-cannot-make-a-decision-on-any-purchase-without-the-benefit-of-extensive-market-analysis-and-at-least-fourteen-spreadsheets, this became quite a project.
Though I had not stayed at a Westin recently, I did remember that they were marketing their "Heavenly Bed" and friends I polled told me that this was a GREAT BED. So, I called the nearest Westin (Dupont Circle Westin in DC) and asked if they had a showroom where we could look at this bed. Apparently, there are no showrooms, and the only way to test out the bed is to stay at a Westin. Not to be deterred (and to prevent the inevitable "spreadsheet to determine if paying to stay at a Westin for one night is a solid investment") I asked if my husband and I could come to the hotel and try out the bed in a vacant room.
What follows may be the most uncomfortable few minutes of my life (well, other than completely blanking on my cousin's name at a family wedding, but that's a story for another day). At the Westin, the kind gentleman I had spoken to earlier in the day was no longer on duty, so I had to explain again to the new concierge that my husband and I were interested in just lying down on a heavenly bed for a few minutes to see if we wanted to buy one.
We were escorted upstairs by a bellhop who let us in the room and then stood right at the foot of the bed as Canetto and I tried to make ourselves comfortable and test out the bed. (NOTE: having a perfect stranger staring at you while you're trying to get comfortable on a bed is not for the weak, or really anyone other than Paris Hilton).