Monograms don't usually make me cry. But there in my room at the Peninsula Beverly Hills, embroidered in cursive on the king-size pillowcase, were two beautiful and baffling letters: an H and an F. What was this cryptic message? I tried to think what "HF" could possibly mean. Suddenly I realized: It meant me.

Such small, thoughtful touches surprise me to tears. Talk about service. They also lower my guard. Later an orange bottle called NeuroSleep appeared at my bedside, boasting "Zzzzzz…in every bottle."...