Danny, the Night Porter ...

THE GRITTI PALACE, Venice circa 1990 
 
 

Anonymous oil of the Grand Canal (collection Marion Vu Dinh)

   

     On one of my early stays at the Gritti, I had a wonderful package which included full breakfast and lots of perks –flowers and wine and cheese and fruit.  It was the week before Christmas and I was one of their rare clients.  Everywhere I turned the staff amazingly called me by name.  I honestly wondered if they didn’t have cue cards hidden behind their work stations.

The Gritti, Christmas 1992

The first night I enthusiasticly set out with my special Gritti pass for the grand old municipal casino.  When I tried to withdraw $100 from a nearby money machine  I watched in horror as a message flashed in Italian informing me that my card had been SWALLOWED !

Returning to the hotel, broke and dejected, I hinted to the management side about an advance to be added onto my bill.  This was met with a politely chilly fin de non-recevoir.

Concierge's corner

My first room at the Gritti

Now, you understand the executive branch of luxury hotels is there to manage the accounts, and they don’t always have too much contact with the guests.  The concierge staff, on the other hand, is there primarily to serve, to make everyone happy, and in the process make as much money as they can.

The night concierge was a roly-poly, ever-smiling career man who had truly found his calling.  He looked much like a younger Danny de Vito and plied his trade with enthusiasm and joy.

The real Devito (google photo)

Observing the unsuccesful encounter with the director and sensing my drama, he discreetly asked how he might help.  “You probably can’t,” I said, “unless you have the keys to the bank.”

He understood everything without my needing to explain further.  “How much do you need?”  he asked with a twinkle.  “One hundred?  Two hundred?”  

Apparently the concierge staff keeps its own cash box for just such “investments.”  I can no longer remember the sum, but it was a reasonable godsend, and he seemed thrilled to pack me off to the casino.

The Venice Casino, housed in the elegant 15th century Palazzo Vendramin

I only played black jack at the time (I later gave up all gambling when I woke up to the realization that I was much too poor to lose).  On this particular evening I managed miraculously to play for a couple of hours before leaving with precisely the same amount with which I had arrived.

I had been churning over in my mind just what sum would be an appropriate tip.  The problem was temporarily resolved, as on my return I had no choice but to report that I had neither won nor lost, and could only return the loan which I did poste-haste.

Having recovered my bank card the next morning, I planned to leave a gift, but Danny was nowhere to be seen, and I am none too proud to admit that I didn’t look too diligently for him.

The following year, returning from the casino well after midnight, I found Danny at his post.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.  It was one of the rare times I had actually won a nice sum, and I was quite exhilarated.  “And do you remember loaning me the money last year?” 

“Indeed I do,” replied Danny, breaking into a big smile.

“Tonight I won 400 dollars,” I said, “so here is half for you.”

Gianni

I later wondered if  I had perhaps been a bit excessive. 

On my next visit to the Gritti, however, I had reason to be really satisfied with my gesture.   When I asked Gianni, the head concierge, why I had not seen “Danny,”  he explained that the hotel was in mourning, because the much loved night porter had recently been discovered dead at his post, having succumbed to a heart attack in the early hours of the morning.  He was only 48.  

      

A fading photo album of my first Venetian memories

 Here are a few photographs from my first trip to Venice in the mid-seventies.  They were taken in November, and the grain and fading colors now tend to enhance the drama of my first impressions of this supremely grand canal city.

I have known Venice under every season (except the height of summer, which is surely to be avoided if possible).  These photos reflect my favorite season, Winter.  It can be bitterly cold, but unlike Paris, there is often a vibrant winter sun.

Whatever the light or whatever the temperature, Venice remains a city of great mystery and elegance.

 




 





A city of canals is also a city of bridges....

Pigeons on the Piazza San Marco

My first Venice hotel was a nondescript walkup without lobby, with 

 view on the back of an old church.  Doesn't sound like much on paper!

 Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.f

 [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

A Date With Destiny ...

THE EXCELSIOR HOTEL, Florence circa 1979

Bellboy --watercolor by Chas-Laborde

      If I have any aptitude for hotel bargaining, it came about strictly by accident.   Like most people, it had never occurred to me that hotel rooms were negotiable.

What I discovered in Florence somewhat changed my life.   It opened up a whole new world of luxury hotel possibilities.

I had reserved what I thought to be a medium range boutique hotel, but upon arrival, I realized I had managed a major screw-up.  The hotel was too nice, too expensive, and fully booked with no reservation in my name.  When telephoning, the bookmark had undoubtedly slipped a line or two in my Michelin guide book, and I had no doubt reserved at another hotel (who knows which one) without realizing my error.

The reception staff was understanding and helpful, but could only offer to call elsewhere for me.   When they understood the modest price I had expected to pay, it became increasingly evident (and embarrassing) that the error had been mine.  A nearby pensione was located which --though indeed cheap-- was pretty elementary in comfort.

Florence, the Arno River (photo google archives)

I particularly remember some sort of rudimentary shower in the corner of the room with no curtain, as well as a dead roach (though hardly the first I had encountered, growing up in the South). 

As I had allotted two nights to Florence before leaving for Rome, I decided that drastic measures were needed, and I headed for the Hotel Excelsior, the grandest of the Italian CIGA hotels of the day, a category I would never have considered under normal circumstances.

I had first bargained with myself, deciding to brave that first night at the undesirable pensione, and to compensate with a taste of unaccustomed luxury the subsequent day.  As soon as I entered the Excelsior’s supremely baroque foyer, I was ready to make whatever sacrifice might prove necessary.

Facade of the Excelsior

I asked  the rate for a single room.  The distinguished dirretore responded with a figure which must have seemed about as high as I could  have ever feared. In total innocence I asked if there were not something less expensive.   I had heard of small rooms for domestic staff which the Parisian palaces sometimes offered.

To my surprise, the gentleman took a piece of paper and wrote down another figure, significantly less than the first one.  A fast learner, I responded by asking if there were not perhaps an even better price.   When the paper was returned to me with a good 50% off the original tariff, I felt as though swept up in a surrealist dream.   

 I couldn’t resist asking if there were not even less expensive quarters available.

The manager replied with the warmest, friendliest smile.  No, this was indeed his best price.  I told him I was delighted with our arrangement, and would arrive in the early morning of the following day.

The Starwood Excelsior lobby today, much as I remember it (photo google)

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr