To the untrained eye, it looks like laziness—an open suitcase hogging the tub, zippers yawning, shampoo bottles sidelined on the counter. But housekeeping veterans know the gesture is code: these guests have been bitten before, sometimes literally. Smooth porcelain is a moat; tile walls are ramparts. Bed-bugs, fleas, and the occasional adventurous cockroach can scale carpet, climb bedding, and even scurry up wooden luggage racks, but they struggle on the slick curve of a dry bathtub. One night spent inside that ceramic fortress can save six months of domestic warfare once the traveler gets home.
Maria, a housekeeper with twenty years in mid-range hotels, spotted the pattern long ago. “First-timers unpack onto the luggage rack or the spare quilt,” she says. “After their first outbreak, they wheel the case straight to the tub and leave it there until checkout.” She’s seen families argue about counter space, business travelers apologizing for the odd placement, and honeymooners who insist on two separate tubs—one for bags, one for champagne. Each suitcase in the bath is a quiet résumé line: this person has learned the hard way that pests travel farther than passport stamps.
The science backs up the superstition. Bed-bugs prefer rough, fibrous surfaces where they can grip with clawed feet. A 2016 University of Kentucky study found that only 8 % of bugs placed on porcelain managed to climb a vertical 90-degree angle, compared with 92 % on varnished wood. Add the fact that bathtubs are usually isolated from upholstered furniture and bed frames, and you’ve created an island fortress in a hotel room that is otherwise upholstered wall-to-wall in potential hiding spots.
Seasoned travelers add extra layers: keeping the case zipped except when needed, storing dirty laundry in sealed compression bags, and running a flashlight along mattress seams before accepting the room. Some even pack a collapsible luggage stand made of aluminum tubing—lightweight, washable, and too slick for most insects. But the bathtub remains the zero-cost classic, a hack passed from backpacker forums to cruise-ship Facebook groups like contraband candy.
Housekeeping staff appreciate the courtesy. A suitcase in the tub doesn’t snag fitted sheets, block vacuum cords, or spill socks under the bed. It also signals that the guest is unlikely to leave half-eaten room-service burgers fermenting on the nightstand—pest control’s second-favorite invitation. Managers have begun to notice the trend too; a few chains now market “CleanStay” rooms with photos of porcelain luggage rests, turning traveler folklore into advertising copy.
Of course, the trick isn’t foolproof. Bathrooms can harbor their own problems—drain flies, mildew, the occasional adventurous ant—but those nuisances rarely follow guests home. And if the tub itself feels suspect, a quick rinse with hot water and a travel-size disinfectant spray creates a secondary barrier. The goal isn’t sterile perfection; it’s damage control at 11 p.m. in a city you’ve never seen before.
So the next time you check in and see a suitcase parked like a cat in a sink, resist the urge to tidy it away. That traveler is telling a silent story—of itchy nights, exterminator bills, and the universal hope that vacation memories should include sunsets, not insect bites. Give them a nod of understanding, zip your own bag, and maybe wheel it toward the porcelain throne. After all, the cheapest insurance against bringing home unwanted souvenirs is a two-foot climb into the tub—where your luggage, and your peace of mind, can sleep safely above the fray.
