Clementina, Still Lady of the Manor ...

GRAND ALBERGO TIMEO  --Taormina, Sicily

(This musing was originally posted in October 2012)

Clementina 1978

       When I met Clementina La Floresta, she  had already been at the Timeo for nearly seventy years.  She was closing in on ninety and her mind had begun to waver, but she was often alert and retained a sharp memory for the distant past. 

She was the Timeo’s owner, at least she had been.  Her adoring daughter and son-in-law had long since taken over the day-to-day management, but Clementina was usually there, seated regally in the lounge, ready to chat with guests, effortlessly diving in and out of a number of languages.

She had arrived in Sicily shortly after her eighteenth birthday to marry the owner of the esteemed Timeo, already a Taormina landmark after several decades of activity.

Portrait of Marcel Proust 1892

“I remember as if it were yesterday,” she once told me.  “My very first week in the hotel, I had the formidable task of having to escort Monsieur Marcel Proust into the dining room for dinner.  I was shaking like a leaf.”

She soon accustomed  herself to being the Timeo’s official hostess, and found herself charming the likes of Andre Gide and D.H. Lawrence (who is said to have written much of Lady Chatterly's Lover there); later Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni.  Not to mention the Vanderbilts, the Rothschilds and the Krupps.

At a time when world travel was reserved for the privileged, the Timeo was for connoisseurs.

In the ensuing years when I would return at Christmas, she was less chatty, but she always greeted each guest graciously with a smile, still very much the lady of the manor.

On my last visit in the early eighties, her daughter told me, with tears in her eyes,  the hotel was being sold.   It was a family tragedy, she said.  She and her sisters were born there; it had been created in 1873 by their grandfather..

Interior of the Timeo today (photo Orient Express)

There had been tensions between the siblings, and two other sisters, long since expatriated to Rome and Milan,  had preferred their part in cash.  The property was now worth much more than the hotel, itself.  It had its loyal following, but theirs had been an old- fashioned management, often wary of the modern world.    They hadn’t even wanted a pool, fearing it would attract a less desirable clientele.   

The sale had one important stipulation: Clementina and her family were to remain on the premises, and the old lady was never to be told the Timeo had been sold. 

In less than a year the hotel had closed down.  The buyer ended up in prison, though I never knew why.  It remained shut for many years thereafter, before being purchased by the Orient Express company.

I like to think that Clementina died in her own bed.    

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

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

  CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other Timeo postings

The Timeo was first featured in "Room Without Bath" in Sept. 2012; and "The Beginning and the End of Duncan" Nov. 2012 (to access, click on titles).

Living It Up On A Budget

HOTEL BRISTOL, Paris

Sunday afternoon at the Bristol

(Originally posted February 2013/the improved dollar has kept the price about the same)

Times are kind of hard, and some days we just have to face facts.    As I tell the grandchildren (which for some reason sends them into great gales of laughter):  “Money does not grow on trees!”

There haven’t been enough earnings lately finding their way into the coffers to justify much of a splurge.  Consequently, I figure I can count my blessings, savor  past memories (that’s what I’ve been doing these last months on “Hotel Musings”), and enjoy some of the cheaper deals out there.

Tea time

As high living goes, coffee at the Bristol must be the best value for money that Paris has to offer these days.  It is (relatively) cheap AND about as luxurious an afternoon’s outing as you could imagine.

  

Here’s the deal:  For just a tad over a ten-dollar bill (nine euros, to be exact), I invite you to enter the exquisite world of the rich and sometimes famous.

Fiona "at home" in lobby

Lorna on recent coffee tasting  expedition

The Bristol is arguably Paris' chic-est hotel address.  It reeks of understated elegance at its best, and is the home away from home of Robert de Niro, Angelina and Brad, Paul McCartney, to name but a few.  


A number of scenes from Woody Allen's popular "Midnight in Paris" were filmed here.

Originally a private mansion, it was already almost 200 years old when transformed into a luxury hotel in 1925.  It was named after the 4th Earl of Bristol, an Englishman  noted for his travels around Europe in the 18th century.

Brenda, a little touch-up

Former president Nicolas Sarkozy (as well as quite a few presidents before him) made the hotel's Epicure restaurant his canteen, stopping by regularly from his presidential offices across the street.

Nowadays, socialist president François Hollande would sooner be caught dead than publicly associated with such luxury, so there is little chance of running into him or any of his cabinet members.  It is said that key government members have been discouraged from patronizing the Bristol, and certainly are NEVER to be photographed there.

Coffee is served in the grand foyer-tea room-bar area, which is an extension of the main lobby.  If you wish to stay on budget, then it is mandatory to rigorously follow my instructions. 
 

The high-life version of a cup of coffee

Do not bother with the menu.  There is an abundance of tempting snacks, all sorts of mouth-watering desserts and an assortment of teas from the far corners of the globe.    Ignore all of the preceding. 

When the waiter arrives, just say:  “un café, s’il vous plait.”  [euuh  KAH-faye, SEEL voo play].  Naturally, you can say it in English, if you wish; but in that case, it is best to specify “an espresso coffee.”

In addition to a pretty heady environment of grand hotel aesthetics and celebrity comings and goings, here’s what you get:  one perfect Parisian espresso; one pretty little bottle of designer water; dainty old-fashioned, embroidered linen cocktail napkins; and --last but so not least--  an assortment of three, four or even six (depending on the mood of the day) delicious homemade chocolate candies.  All this to the accompaniment of discreet rippling chords from the resident harpist.

A tip is definitely not mandatory, as it is ostensibly always included in France.  However, you are not forbidden to leave the remaining one euro on the little silver dish.

Not bad as hotel lobbies go!

Mrs. X at the Gritti

The Gritti Palace, Venice

Room with a view  (From the balcony of N° 215)

Some hobbies, like my hotel passion, can get kind of lonely.  Unlike stamp collectors and film buffs and dog breeders, it’s unusual to meet anyone else with a very similar hobby.  Not only would most people never dream of going to some of “my” hotels, they would often find my extravagances peculiar if not objectionable.

So you can imagine that I was excited to receive a rather special email a number of years ago.  It was from Miranda, a lady from Beverly Hills, a part-time travel agent, no less, asking my hotel advice.   

I had posted a complimentary review on the Fodor’s travel site of my favorite Venetian hotel, the Gritti Palace.  

Breakfast for two on the Gritti's Grand Canal Terrace

Miranda was looking into the better Venice hotels in view of an upcoming trip, but had found the Gritti prices far steeper than any of the others.  “We read your posting, and found your critique most persuasive," she said. “Is it really worth the difference?  We cannot make up our minds, but would be extremely interested in anything you might have to say.  You seem so knowledgeable and enthusiastic."  
 

I don’t think anyone --certainly no one outside my circle of acquaintances-- had ever sought out to such an extent my hotel expertise. 

So I was thrilled with the potential assignment from the other side of the world from this woman whom I would undoubtedly never have the occasion to meet in person.  Ultimately I was able to help considerably.  

Miranda explained that my arguments had convinced her, if only they could somehow find a more appealing price.  After several emails --by which time I was thinking of her as pretty much an old friend-- I proposed telephoning, myself, to the Gritti’s then-reservations manager, Signor Mora, who had always been helpful in securing the best prices. 

 To make a long story shorter, Miranda gave every appearance of being just about blown away when I ultimately was able to report that Signor Mora had agreed to a price close to half of that originally mentioned.  He  had also noted “VIP treatment” on the internal reservations record, assuring an unexpected bonus, and he further promised  they would give the best accommodations possible to Mrs. X. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she wrote  “to think that we as travel agents couldn’t do better, and all you have done is just too marvelous.  I only hope to one day be able to return the favor for you.”  Her enthusiasm was already a sufficient reward, and I reveled in her satisfaction and vicariously savored her upcoming week at the Gritti.     

I explained that it would be in both our interests for her to ask to see Signor Mora and to express a special  thank-you to him upon arrival.  I also recommended she tell Gianni, the  head concierge, that I had urged her to avail herself of his talented services.

I was looking forward to a full report on the Venice trip, and she even promised to send photos of  her room upon  return to California.  I waited several weeks, then I couldn’t restrain myself from sending another email, asking how everything had gone, and to please send all the details!

Ultimately I felt quite foolish, because  I never, ever heard from her again.

Some months later, I had occasion to talk again with Signor Mora at the Gritti.  I was enquiring about room rates, both for me and for friends from North Carolina.  Suddenly, out of the blue, Signor Mora asked, “Will Mrs. X  be coming this time?”  His tone alarmed me. 

Gritti facade seen from the canal

 Mora was a warm and gentle person, but this time he persevered with a certain tense fervor.  “Because I believe Mrs. X was not entirely happy with us, I don’t expect that she would wish to return to the Gritti.   No, I’m quite sure that would not be a very good idea.”

I was appalled that everything had somehow gone so badly.  Mora had always bent over backwards to help, and I had been so pleased that he would be looking after my new internet friend.   I made a stab at finding out what exactly had transpired, but clearly Mora had said all he intended to.

 I would never know what had happened.  I do feel certain of one thing: that whatever problems or dramas may have occurred were of neither Signor Mora nor the Gritti’s doings.

Evening snack in room 313

-o-

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

The Gritti Palace was also featured in:  blog No. 10, "Danny Night Concièrge" Nov. 2, 2012; No. 13, "Those Silver Spooned Children" Nov. 23, 2012; and No. 19, "Hotel Staff's Best and Worst List" Dec. 19, 2012 (to access, go to "blog archives" on upper right hand side of this page).