Couple Checks Into California Hotel and Then Realizes the Bathroom Is Completely See Through

Ever checked into a hotel only to realize the bathroom is basically a glass box on display? Yeah, that happened to us last month in California, and it still makes me laugh and cringe at the same time.

What started as a quick weekend getaway turned into a crash course in hotel design gone wild, a mix of modern minimalism, budget shortcuts, and total privacy failure. I didn’t expect to spend the night engineering towel curtains and negotiating shower schedules, but here we are.

A Room With (Too Much) of a View

We rolled into California late, the kind of late where your brain is cotton and your only goal is a shower and a real door you can close on the day. Cute boutique hotel. Palm out front, neon script over the entry, that easy West Coast vibe. The lobby smelled like eucalyptus and new paint. I was already picturing eight hours of coma sleep.

We get the key cards, ride the elevator, and swing open the room door. At first glance it’s perfect. Clean lines. Soft lamps. King bed with too many pillows. Then I clock the bathroom. Not a bathroom. A glass cube. Floor to ceiling. Right at the foot of the bed like a display at a design museum. No curtain. No frosting. Just… transparency.

The Great Privacy Hunt

I start laughing because I think it has to be a trick. There’s always a hidden shade, right? A switch that tints the glass. So I start hunting. I’m tapping the wall like a raccoon. Light switches. “Privacy” button. Nada. I even waved my hand in front of the glass like it might sense embarrassment and fog itself out of pity. That cube stayed crystal clear.

My partner is trying to keep a straight face but you can see the math happening. We’re tired. We need showers. But there’s a full-view situation and even after years together there are some mysteries you do not want solved under hotel lighting. I pick up the room directory, the one no one reads, hoping for “How to not be seen.” No luck. I call the front desk.

“Hi, sorry, our bathroom seems… very visible.”

The agent doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, that’s one of our signature features.”

I croak out, “Any chance your signature has a curtain?”

He apologizes. Says a few rooms have frosted panels, ours doesn’t, and the hotel’s full. He offers to move us in the morning. He’s nice about it, but we’re stuck for the night with the world’s most intimate aquarium.

DIY Privacy Engineering (a.k.a. Towels, Blankets, and Desperation)

We try problem-solving. First, towel engineering. We loop two bath sheets over the top edge of the cube. Gravity laughs. They slide down like stage curtains after a bad act. I grab the spare blanket from the closet and drape it across the side facing the bed.

There’s no lip to hold it, so we use hangers to clip blanket to shower door hinge. It works for three triumphant seconds, then the blanket slips and thumps the tile. We look at each other. It’s either accept the situation or start crafting a fort out of pillow shams and luggage straps.

We end up doing this choreography where one of us puts on headphones and stares out the window while the other showers. The glass makes everything echo like a cathedral. California has never heard such aggressive water white noise. I’m rinsing faster than I’ve ever rinsed. You could time me with a race clock.

The Night of the Glowing Cube

Then the toilet. Bless the designer who put it behind a half-height partition. Not a door. Not enough. We resort to the ultimate trust fall. I announce intentions like a pilot on intercom. “Please direct your gaze to the emergency exit signs.” My partner salutes and stares at the ceiling like it owes rent. I want to send the architect a fruit basket and a strongly worded note.

After we both survive the evening’s glass-box Olympics, we try to sleep. The cube glows every time one of us hits the bathroom light, so we learn to move like ninjas in the dark. Around two in the morning I wake up thirsty and forget. Flip. The whole room turns into an art installation called “Hydration, But Make It Public.”

Morning comes, and to be fair, the shower is fantastic. Rain head, perfect pressure, spa products with ingredients I can’t pronounce. The thing photographs like a dream. I snap a pic for you, because of course I do, and even in my petty mood I can see why hotels keep building these.

The room feels bigger, brighter. You can tell the budget loved the fewer walls. But you can also tell whoever approved it didn’t beta-test it with two people who like each other and also dignity.

What the Hotel Told Us (and What I Learned)

We head down to the desk, and I ask, nicely, if there’s any way to swap to a frosted room later. The agent is great. He says they get this request all the time. He explains the pitch designers make: glass lets light into interior bathrooms, saves on fixtures, speeds builds, cleans easier. I get it.

I also tell him that privacy is not optional. He nods like he’s heard it a hundred times this month. By lunch he calls and moves us to a floor with semi-frosted panels. Not perfect, but better. Blur is a beautiful thing.

Here’s the part you’ll appreciate because you love a takeaway list:

Ask before you book. If a listing photo crops the bathroom aggressively or you can see a plant through the shower wall, email and ask, “Is there a door?” Four words that can save your relationship.

Pack a couple of big clips. I’m serious. Binder clips, camping clips, anything. If you ever need to hang a towel over a rogue pane, you’ll thank me.

Bring a light scarf or sarong. They’re feather-weight and make a decent emergency curtain with those clips. Plus they dry fast.

If you’re traveling with a friend or colleague, this is non-negotiable. Call the property. If they can’t confirm a solid door, pick a different spot. No gig is worth glass-cube politics.

Advocate at check-in. “We’d prefer a room with a fully private bathroom.” Say it calmly. Most front desks will help if they can. If they can’t, ask to be first in line for a switch.

A Funny Story With a Real Lesson

We did the swap, and the rest of the stay was great. Coffee in the lobby was strong. Staff were kind. Location was perfect for our plans. But the story followed us all weekend. Every time one of us reached for the bathroom light we paused like we were defusing a bomb. You can’t unsee the glass cube once it’s in your life.

And honestly, I get the trend. Hotels fight for attention. Photos sell. A glass box screams “boutique” in a thumbnail. But that’s the problem. They’re building for the first impression, not the tenth minute of real use. Privacy isn’t an add-on. It’s the baseline.

If the designer wants light, put the glass at the top third and frost the rest. If they want open, separate the toilet into a real water closet. Keep the shower visible if you must, but give guests a way to choose opacity. A pull-down shade costs less than one bad review.

We joked that we should start a rating system. Five stars for a real door that really shuts. Four for heavy frosting. Three for frosting that turns into fog art when it steams. Two for a curtain that flaps like a haunted house. One for The Cube. Zero for The Cube with a spotlight.

By the time we checked out, the story had morphed from stress to comedy. We told the front desk we appreciated the room move and the empathy. The agent said our week had set a record for “privacy requests.” He also said renovations were coming. He didn’t promise walls, but the smile said maybe.

On the drive out we passed the beach and laughed about how we’d flown across the country to test our communication skills in a glass terrarium. California has that effect: beautiful, a little extra, unforgettable. It’s where we learned that the only thing more valuable than a sea view is a bathroom door that actually exists.

So that’s my update. If you’re coming out to California soon and your hotel brags about “open-concept bathrooms,” bring your sense of humor and those clips. You can handle almost anything with a towel, a plan, and someone willing to stare hard at the ceiling on command. And if all else fails, remember the magic words at check-in:

“Hi. We love the room. Do you have one where the bathroom isn’t a fishbowl?”