A few years ago—specifically in September 2018, in the pre-COVID, pre-parenthood stretch of our lives—my husband joined me on a work trip to Chicago. Just before we left, we learned that the Palmer House, where corporate travel had booked us, was on strike. And it wasn’t isolated. Many major hotels across downtown were part of the same action over issues like year-round healthcare. We tried to find alternatives, but with most hotels on strike and a strict corporate policy limiting where I could stay, we ran out of options almost immediately.
Crossing a picket line is uncomfortable in any scenario, but with my husband—a union member—beside me, it felt wrong. The workers were respectful, and we didn’t have any negative interactions, but we both sympathized with them. Hotels make enormous profits, and shareholders benefit, while the employees who actually keep the place running were fighting for basic protections. They’re the heartbeat of any hotel, and their absence was felt immediately.
Inside, the hotel felt noticeably empty. Not dramatic. Just hollow in a way you don’t expect from a large, historic property. No housekeeping carts in the halls, no staff conversations behind the scenes, no steady flow of people who usually make a place like this run smoothly. Managers were covering everything visible. They checked guests in, staffed the bar, handled the breakfast buffet, and with many services suspended, everything that remained felt pared back. You could tell they were doing their best, but the strain showed.
Most hotel services were reduced or shut down entirely. A couple of dining options were still operating in a limited way, but many of the usual amenities weren’t available. Housekeeping was paused, so guests had to take care of their own supplies.
Upstairs, each guest floor had a long table set up by the elevators with towels, toiletries, and other basics stacked in neat piles—a self-serve station for everything you’d normally receive from housekeeping. That image has stayed with me: a full spread of towels and soaps laid out on a banquet table in the hallway. People kept to themselves, grabbed what they needed, and went back to their rooms. It was quiet, functional, and undeniably strange.
What stayed with me wasn’t inconvenience, we managed fine. It was the clarity of seeing just how much human labor supports a hotel’s entire atmosphere. When the workers weren’t there, the Palmer House looked the same, but it didn’t feel the same. The building was beautiful, but it was missing the people who give it life.
The Palmer House Hilton is one of those Chicago landmarks that carries its history in the walls. It’s grand, ornate, and layered with more stories than most hotels ever get. Presidents have stayed there, celebrities passed through, and generations of travelers have walked across those marble floors. It has survived fires, reinventions, and every shift a city can throw at a building that old.
And this is just one more story. Even now, seven years later, my husband will bring up that trip, and how odd this stay felt.
The strike did eventually end. Later that month, the Hilton properties (including the Palmer House) reached an agreement with the union. The workers won year-round healthcare, which had been the central issue from the beginning. After weeks on the picket line, they returned to work with contracts that finally offered some stability during the slow winter months. Knowing that outcome shapes how I remember the whole experience. At the time it felt uncomfortable and complicated, but it was also part of a moment when workers stood together. And it worked.
