58 - Rue des Beaux-Arts: Oscar Wilde, Francis Bacon and David Hockney

L'HOTEL, Paris

Cozy atmosphere at l'Hotel's "Le Restaurant"

    L'Hotel is a hidden gem, lost in the back streets of Saint Germain des Pres.   It has no other name, and no obvious sign outside.  You pretty well have to know it's a hotel or you wouldn't think of going there. 

Early Oscar Wilde (Bing)

     It is where Oscar Wilde lived in his last years which were neither happy nor prosperous.  In those turn-of-the-century times, it was called the Alsace, and it was a nondescript, inexpensive hostelry where rooms rented by the month.   Even so, Wilde --never at a loss for a bon mot-- is said to have quipped, more or less on his deathbed:  "Here I am about to die ... the way I lived ... above my means."

 

I first heard of it back in the early seventies when it had recently been transformed into a luxury establishment.  I used to sometimes  find myself at the Claude Bernard Gallery on rue des Beaux-Arts, just a few steps down the street from l'Hotel.

Ann 1974

  My friend Ann had once worked for the Marlborough Gallery in London.  She had remained friends with its director who made sure that she received invitations to some of the Parisian art world's to-dos.

So it was that we found ourselves regularly in attendance at the Claude Bernard Gallery's opening nights.  In those days C.B. was one of the Left Bank's most influential art merchants.   It had exclusive French dealership for David Hockney and Francis Bacon, and we saw both of these art world titans, not only at the gallery, but around the neighborhood as well.

We would go to these C.B. soirées as much to see the people as the exhibits, not to mention the free food and booze.   The guest list tended to be peopled with an assortment of with-it post-hippy eccentrics, none of them buyers as far as I could tell.   They all seemed to know each other, and I assumed they spent most of their time going to these parties.  For awhile we imagined ourselves on the fringe of their world, just by virtue of our regular attendance.

As the evening progressed, some of the richer attendees would invariably move their part of the party to the bar of l'Hotel.  An English woman with purple fingernails who was said to have posed for David Hockney, once asked if we were coming down the street, but it would have never occurred to us to move to an expensive hotel bar when the gallery was furnishing food and drink gratis.

   

 

Hockney self portrait

    I once saw David Hockney (who lived in Paris in those days) in a decidedly surrealistic moment, sitting alone on the open-air terrace of the Deux Magots Cafe.  It was raining, and he was sheltering himself and his coffee with a large red umbrella.

 On another occasion  I encountered Francis Bacon towards the end of his life walking down rue Bonaparte, mumbling in a particularly stressful manner to himself, looking much like one of his strangely distorted paintings.   I wanted to say something to him, but I only managed to emit a nod.  Bacon stared through me, and continued his tortured promenade.

Bacon at a London retrospective c. 1970 (Google photo)

 I became reacquainted with l'Hotel a few years ago when a client friend stayed there, and I learned then that many of the rooms in this intimate mini-palace are dedicated to some illustrious celebrities of the past.  

Of course there is the Oscar Wilde room which contains some period furniture from his era, and various artifacts associated with the scandalous writer.   Among others, rooms are devoted to the courtesan-spy Mata Hara and the French musical comedy star Mistinguett. 

The Oscar Wilde room (Curious Hotels photo)

  

Recently refurbished from its mini swimming pool in the old wine cellar to the top of its impressive atrium, it is an address which today again attracts a discerning clientele.  Michelin-starred chef  Julien Montbabut has graced its restaurant with his considerable talents since 2011.

 

L'Hotel's impressive atrium

Prices have increased a bit in recent months, but L'Hotel's restaurant remains excellent value for money.  The luncheon menu (Tuesday through Saturday) proposes the best of the day in a three course meal for 55 euros (two courses for 45 euros).  Needless to say, you can eat at any number of Parisian restaurants for this amount.  But rarely this well. 

BMP ... another lunch at l'Hotel

SIDEBAR:  A recent lunch

at l'Hotel with Brenda and Dickie

 

            Here are a few photos from our last lunch from the kitchens of Chef Montbabut.   It was during Dickie's visit in January, so naturally he joined us at what is probably his favorite Paris restaurant.

Brittany crab in sweet and sour vinaigrette, with lemon, radish, 

cucumber and avocado (and borage flowers which we all ate)

 

Duck foie gras,seared with chickpeas

No time for flattering portraits, just some serious eating!

Veal and spinach with  ham and rosemary stuffing

Served by the aimiable and bilingual Alberto (who grew up in St. Martin)

    

"Tete de Moine", thin shavings of a special Jura cheese, served with grated truffles

Chestnut dessert with merringue and pomegranate ice cream

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

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Ann was also mentioned in blog No. 5, "Room Without Bath" Sept. 2012;  No. 20, "Decaffeinated coffee ... in Hungarian?" Jan 2013; and blog No. 33, "Breakfast in the 1970's" April 2013 (to access, click on highlighted titles).

READER COMMENT –Note from Kathy Horgan

The following is a special,  witty reaction to today’s piece from my old friend Kathy, faithful reader of these musings.  I've changed a couple of names for obvious reasons.

  My friendship with Kathy dates back almost 40 years when we were both working at Unesco.  Kathy has since had any number of professional adventures, and after Paris lived briefly in both Holland and Turkey,  before returning to the U.S.A. a few years ago.   She  presently works at amfAR (American Foundation for AIDS Research)  in NYC, and serves as borough councilwoman in Red Bank, New Jersey.   

 

     Hi Frank!    Well, here I am again commuting to work on the ferry. Your Musings are such a welcome respite from the pole of work awaiting me at amfAR and the issues we are trying to resolve in the Borough of Red Bank.  It just never ends.

     I especially enjoyed this musing on L'Hotel.  I discovered it back in the early 80s after I had resigned from Unesco and before I began my studies at the Ecole du Louvre.   I became involved with a French artistic organization grandiosely called L'Organisation mondiale pour la Promotion des Arts et des Lettres.   It was headed by a breathtakingly beautiful but ditsy French/Martiniquaise who was married to an English banker.   Orchidée and Charles Henry, they were called ... a very interesting couple.   She was so happy to have me involved  because of my organizational skills that I was named to the Board of Trustees!!

    For a while they had a gallery on the Quai Conti and hosted exhibitions and events that were well attended and covered by the press.  Orchidée and Charles Henry were well connected. 

  You cannot imagine all the intrigues that went on.  Orchidée was bi-sexual, and it seemed that everyone desired her much to the chagrin of her very jealous husband.  Because I kept a distance and neutral position in all of this, I became her confidante.  She would tell me all kinds of things, most of which I didn't want to know!!  But she said that she trusted me. 

  

  All of this to say, that these conversations usually took place at L'Hotel over a kir!  I eventually lost contact.  The organization has now long since been dissolved.  I must say, I've often wondered what happened to them???

Thanks for another great story.  We are arriving in NYC now.

Lots of love, Kathy

 

57 - The Caldwells Come to Paris

HOTEL LAUMIERE, Paris

An unchanged Parc des Buttes Chaumont, Paris 2013

      When I first settled in Paris I officially lived off the Champs-Elysées, but I worked in the 19^th Arrondisement on the edge of the city in the more village-like ambiance around the Buttes Chaumont Park.

     My office was in the apartment of Jean and Nancy, and as I explained in an earlier musing, I connected with far more people around my work address than on the more impersonal Champs-Elysées.

     Though I was barely making minimum wage, and it was never enough to quite see me through until the end of the month, I --like most all the other single people I knew in those days-- ate all my meals out.  Workdays found me generally at the Laumière, a huge, teeming, dirt-cheap restaurant within the neighborhood’s unique hotel.

Lunchtime at Hotel Laumiere 1970

     It was there that I learned the rudiments of what French food was all about.   The menu changed daily, and I remember that most of the main courses cost three francs.  It’s hard to imagine just what that would be worth today, but at the time it was about a half a dollar.  For that amount, I could choose between stuffed cabbage, beef bourguignon, grilled chicken, cow’s liver, etc.  

     Edith Caldwell had been my second grade teacher, and her son, Frank, a friend back in Aberdeen.  Frank brought his mother on a vacation to Paris in 1971, and I served as guide.

     The Caldwells stayed at the Hotel Moscow, which was ironically located on the rue Leningrad (unless it was the other way around, my memory being a little hazy on those details).

     It was still the cold war, and I recall Edith (who had a strong personality and was not above a bit of provocation) commented with a certain humor that she’d hate to see some of the Aberdeen townspeople’s reaction if they learned the name of her hotel.  The insinuation being, it didn’t always take too much to shock in a small southern town in those days.
 

Edith behatted for the Stoneybrook Races, Southern Pines 1972

     Although I had been in Paris for over a year at the time, my French was still far from accomplished.  I was fiercely motivated, however, and carried a little blue English-French dictionary around with me at all times.   It was unfortunately of limited efficiency, as it was ultra abridged, and the translations sometimes misleading.

     Jean and Nancy, who were wonderful employers and very good people, proposed I bring my friends by for a coffee at their home after lunch at the Laumière.  I was thrilled to be able to share with the Caldwells a glimpse into real Parisian life and to show how well I was integrating into the French world.  

Jean and Nancy Gauthier, rue Cavendish 1971

     Before arriving with my guests, I looked up “school teacher”, so as to introduce Edith in correct French.     The normal translation for a small child’s teacher is “maitresse d’école” or school mistress.  Only my little dictionary just left it at “maitresse"!

     A very young child just might call his teacher “Mistress”, but never, never would a grown man present a much older lady as I did: 

     “Nancy, je vous présente ma maitresse.”    

     Nancy was a professor at the Sorbonne and a no-nonsense lady.  She didn’t show any surprise, just smiled warmly, shook Edith’s hand, and without missing a beat said discreetly in French to me, “Oh, most assuredly not!”

     I immediately blushed with the realization of my faux pas, but the Caldwells were undoubtedly  never the wiser to what extent my French was so lamentably lacking.

Me (about a year away from a haircut) with Edith at the Buttes-Chaumont 1971

 

SIDEBAR:  Back to the second grade with Edith and Little Polly

Aberdeen School before the fire (photo by E.S. Eddy)

     I have particularly vivid memories of Edith Caldwell as a school teacher, because it was at the beginning of my second grade in 1949 that the Aberdeen Elementary School burned to the ground.

      It was in the dead of night, so there were no casualties.  My father was a volunteer fireman, and I remember waiting for him to return, standing outside our home with other neighborhood children at three in the morning watching the sky lit up from the blaze on the other side of town.

       Little Polly, who was also in Edith's class that year, had a much better view, as she lived just around the corner from the schoolhouse.
  

Edith at school 1950

 

Little Polly

     After the fire, Edith's second grade settled into an annex to the Baptist Church on Main Street until a new school could be constructed a year later.

     I sat on the front row next to Little Polly, and the clearest memory I have today of Edith's class is of Polly and me singing at the top of our lungs, "Frère Jacques."

     I doubt if I even realized it was French at the time, and it certainly  was not until about the time of Edith and Frank's Paris visit twenty years later that I actually began to understand the words. 

 

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

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

"Little Polly" and Aberdeen were also mentioned in blog No. 26 "Babe Ruth's 60th Home Run"   (to access, click on title).

56 - The Art of Eavesdropping!

CLARIDGE’S, London, THE PLAZA ATHENEE, Paris, and THE PIERRE, NYC

Claridge's lobby 1998

     I make no bones about it, I have always enjoyed eavesdropping.  When alone, it's an ideal, if not entirely reputable, pastime in hotel lobbies and restaurants.

The following  overheard conversation remains anonymous, because I never laid eyes on any of the protagonists.   I was spending Christmas in London at Claridge’s; the action took place in the room next to mine, and it was so enticing that I readily admit pressing my ear to the wall to monitor it.

A dissatisfied guest had telephoned the front desk several times to voice multiple grievances.  As her voice became louder, my curiosity increased. Her primary source of unhappiness was a missing silk scarf which she had purchased as a Christmas gift at Liberty’s of London.

“If it wasn't stolen,” she was saying to her telephone interlocutor, “then she [the maid] must have thrown it away, and in any event, I am out a scarf!"

The real Joan Rivers (Google)

  Her voice was shrill, and although I never saw her, I always imagined the sound coming from the mouth of Joan Rivers, the much-lifted television personality.

She later requested the head concierge come to her rooms, and I could hear some of their conversation clearly.  He was trying his best to placate the enraged client.   Sensing an ally, “Joan Rivers” let loose with a litany of complaints in addition to the missing scarf.

Her father-in-law had rented three suites for the extended family for the holidays, and his considerable business was, she felt, under-appreciated.  “When we arrived for dinner last night at 10 o’clock, we were told the restaurant was closed.  No apologies, no nothing, just closed,” she complained.

“Do you think anyone would have proposed opening the restaurant for us?  Is this a way to treat clients spending this much money?”

The concierge voiced repeated tut-tuts and assured her the hotel would replace the scarf with any she chose.

“But I want the one I bought, and Liberty’s is now closed for Christmas”   Her voice went from a shrieking harridan to that of a petulant child.  Though "Joan Rivers" sounded somehow calmed by the obsequious concierge, the conversation ended in an impasse.   I never heard any more, and suspected that my neighbors ultimately changed hotels. 

My heart went out to the hotel maid.  I never saw her either, but I said a silent prayer that she be spared any further harassment over the Christmas scarf drama. 

Mary and Patricia, Claridge's Housekeeping 1998
(no connection with Joan Rivers)

* * * * * * * *

As eavesdropping goes, the last lunch at the Plaza Athenée's Relais Plaza grill was a prime example:  neither beginning nor end, no plot at all, just fleeting peeks into other people's lives.  It makes me regret not having a Somerset Maugham knack for turning bits and pieces of overheard conversations into fine short stories. 

Dickie and Brenda at the Relais Plaza 2013

The Baroness d’Alésie (that is not exactly her name, but it is close enough) sits on my left, an elderly woman with a gentleman friend who much resembles the older Frank Lloyd Wright.  I pick up intriguing morsels of their conversation, though it is really a monologue as I never actually hear Frank Lloyd Wright say anything.  He just listens and nods at regular intervals.

“Very handsome, not very intelligent, mind you, not very good at being a gigolo ….” says the Baroness at one point.

“… Now she was quite another story.  You remember how very beautiful she was, that exquisite South American look with all that impeccable jewelry and such a delicious touch of nastiness mixed with her charm …”

Discussing restaurants, the baroness, still doing all the talking, comments at some point on  how she “abhors this new way everyone in restaurants always wants to touch you and kiss you.”

I can't imagine what she means, then as they begin to leave, an enthusiastic couple sitting nearby leaps up to pay its respects, the gentleman giving her the most theatrical hand-kiss I have ever seen.  It resembles a one-sided tango.

I am almost forgetting a third member of the luncheon party.  The distinguished old couple is accompanied by a perfectly behaved King Charles spaniel  who sits on a special little rug brought by the hostess and placed on the banquette beside the baroness.  I am amazed to observe a copious plate of food (looking suspiciously like grilled calves liver) has been ordered for the pampered pet who lunches beside his mistress.

I regret not having sneaked a few snapshots for posterity, but  I am not quite brazen enough to whip out my camera at times like these.  To compensate, here's a portrait of Michaela, the Relais' charming hostess.

Michaela in the Relais Plaza 2012

Playing 007 at The Pierre

Doorman at The Pierre

 If my propensity for listening in on others' lives might well be deemed a bit frivolous, my eavesdropping talents were once enlisted for an official mission more or less for the good of the people.

When I stayed at the Wyndham, where there was no food service, I would alternate breakfasts between a nearby diner and the equally nearby Pierre or Sherry Netherland hotels.

I got to know the Pierre’s breakfast room manager who arrived at my table one day with a demeanor of concern.  He explained that the hotel’s executive director was on the way to what he described as a secret meeting with a group of French businessmen.  That rumor was rife the hotel was on the verge of being taken over by a foreign conglomerate!  Thus the reason for the staff’s concern.

He would be seating the group in a little alcove next to my table.  Would it be too much to ask if I could lend an ear?  As the group was speaking French, he explained that anything I might overhear would be greatly appreciated.

For me such a request --don’t ask me why-- was something akin to an honor, and I enthusiastically lent myself to the mission.

As soon as the party came within earshot, I realized there was no question of selling the hotel, at least not that year.  They were in fact film makers from the major Paris television channel, negotiating conditions for a documentary which would give a bird’s eye view into life at three international luxury hotels, including the Pierre.

When I reported back on my 007 mission, Bruno, the maitre d’hotel-manager, appeared greatly pleased, and several of his colleagues later came by my table to relay their thanks and relief.  

I felt much the celebrity, though I no longer remember whether or not I had to pay for breakfast that day!

The Pierre at its 60th Street entrance (Bing)

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

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Claridge's was also mentioned in blog No. 16, "A momentous long-distance call" Dec. 2012;  Bruno at the Pierre in blog No. 19,  "Hotel staff's best and worst list" Jan. 2013; the Wyndham was featured in blog No. 35 "Hollywood on the Hudson" May 2013 (to access, click on  title).

55 - John and Yoko 1969

THE HILTON HOTEL, Amsterdam

Early Beatles (Google archives)

     The Beatles hit international super-stardom the year I finished school.   In 1964 I was in my last year at Campbell College in Buies Creek, North Carolina (the only place I've ever lived which was even smaller than Aberdeen),  and I recall their record being played on the radio virtually non-stop.  It was Love-Me-Do, and it was the first time I had been aware of what was being described as the "new sound."

Whenever you awakened in the morning,  got into an automobile, or crawled into bed in the evening, it seemed Love-Me-Do was within earshot.  In my teens I had been an Elvis fan, and had followed all of the Little Richard-Fats Domino-Bo Diddley rock and rollers throughout the fifties.   I loved the early Beatles hits, but for some reason I never evolved with any pop music after that.

I not only completely missed the Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and everything else that followed, I kind of lost all notion of the Beatles, themselves, after their first couple of years revolutionizing pop music.

By the time I had moved to London at the end of the Swinging Sixties, I was aware that the Beatles were taken seriously, not only by the kids, but also by musicologists and intellectuals.  Further than that, I didn't really have a clue, and I didn't much care one way or the other about their later, more ambitious music.

At UPI, there was an older guy who manned a special United Kingdom desk.  He was the established rock music specialist, and cultivated close contacts --probably on his own time-- with many of the top rock stars.  He wasn't generally a very friendly person, and I didn't normally have occasion to work with him, but one day he proposed that I go to pick up a statement from one of the Beatles.

It turned out to be John Lennon who was just on the point of marrying Yoko Ono.  There was a lot of talk of dissension and infighting within the Beatles, and Yoko was thought to have added to the bad vibes.  It was 1969,  and although the group had not performed for over two years, no one would have dreamed at that time that they were never to appear together again.

Yoko and John 1969 (Evening Standard photo)

The fact was that John Lennon as an individual entertainer held little interest for me.  Yoko even less.  Had I been scheduled to meet the entire Beatles quartet, I would have been thrilled, but just one of them (and I wasn't entirely sure which was which) meant nothing.  With hindsight today, I find my attitude bafflingly ignorant.

So it was that with a minimum of enthusiasm and even less preparation, I went off to Apple Headquarters on Savile Row, where the group had its London offices, to pick up the press release from John and Yoko.  


I was ushered into a large office with white leather sofas around an executive desk.  John sat on one of the couches, I on another, and Yoko kind of draped herself on a cushion more or less at the feet of her future husband.  I don't think she ever opened her mouth, and I erroneously assumed she was overcome with some sort of Asian timidity.

John handed me the press release which because of his special friendship with my UPI colleague was  to be an exclusive.  He explained that he would be waiting twelve hours before releasing it to anyone else.

Wedding day (AP)

  It was the time of the Vietnam War.  The Lennons (along with most everyone else of my generation whom I knew in London) were vehemently anti-war, and they were announcing a seven-day "bed-in" at the Hilton Hotel in Amsterdam to celebrate their imminent marriage and to protest U.S. participation in the Asian conflict.

I cannot conceive today that I would have had no further questions, but I think I found all the information I needed in his prepared announcement.  So after a few banalities of which I have little memory, I thanked them and left.

Today I cringe when I think how out of touch I was, how oblivious I was to his importance in 20th Century music.   Lennon was very relaxed and friendly.  He may well have been intrigued that I showed so little interest in them, but he undoubtedly knew that his project would be reported throughout the world via United Press International, so he was probably not displeased.

The only part of the day that has left a really vivid memory occurred after the meeting.   Lennon accompanied me to the door when I left, and as he ushered me onto the courtyard, I heard little squeals  coming from behind the gates.  Just then we came face to face with a group of five or six excited teen-aged girls who proceeded to release a flurry of rose petals in our direction.

It may have been boringly routine for John Lennon, but it definitely made my day!

Apple Headquarters, 3 Savile Row

SIDEBAR:  The Honeymooners

Newlyweds in The Amsterdam Hilton's Presidential Suite (AP)

John Lennon and Yoko Ono spent their exceedingly mediatized honeymoon in the presidential suite on the ninth floor of the Amsterdam Hilton Hotel.  

Photo call (AP)

  Having been married for long-forgotten reasons in Gibraltar, the eccentric couple received members of the international press corps from their bed for a week in what was alternatively tagged as their bed-in or love-in peace protest.  Lennon later reminisced about the event in the lyrics of his song "John and Yoko." 

Much of the American press was put off  by what was often perceived as Lennon's shrill anti-American statements, and the couple's frequent publicity stunts were often seen as self-serving.

So when Lennon was refused a U.S. visa (ostensibly due to a previous marijuana possession arrest) to re-stage the anti-war stunt in New York, he received little sympathy in the local press.

They later flew to Montreal where they more or less repeated the bed-in, taking over much of the 17th floor of The Queen Elizabeth Hotel. 

Hilton by night, Amsterdam 2013 (Wikepedia)

  

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

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Another rock star, this one from the Beatles'  biggest competition,  was featured in blog No. 29, "An Encounter With Keith"  (to access, click on title).

54 - Seventy-one Years at The Saturnia

THE SATURNIA e INTERNAZIONALE, Venice

Veteran Venetian hotelier Ugo Serandrei with blogger (photo Andrea Scarpa)

     Ugo Serandrei was born at The Saturnia Hotel (room 20, to be exact) 71 years ago.   He has been there ever since.

Probably no city in the world is quite so choc full of hotels as Venice, and the Saturnia is one of the special ones.   Ugo's grandparents, fresh from their native Hungary, bought the hotel --at the time all eight rooms of it-- in 1909, and it is one of the rare Venetian hostelries to remain in the same family for over a century.   It has been transformed and enlarged over the years, now boasting 89 rooms.

« I never thought of doing anything else," Serandrei said recently.   « I have always worked here.  Starting when I was about 13 years old, in the most menial of jobs, I worked with my brother in the kitchen.  I was the one who took the orders from the waiters and relayed them to the cook. It was a start.”

View from the Saturnia's rooftop sun deck 

The Saturnia was one of the first hotels I discovered in the 1970's when I started coming regularly to the City of Doges.  I stayed there several times with Ann in the early days, later with others. 

Originally converted from what remained of a 14^th Century palace, it is located on one of the city's most elegant shopping streets leading off of Saint Marc's Square.  Sitting just behind La Fenice opera house, it has its own little canal for taxi and gondola deposits.

When Brenda and I planned our trip last October, we decided to stay at more than one hotel.  The Gritti was already on our calendar, and I opted for The Saturnia the first few days, for old times sake (see "Back to Venice and The Gritti").   I have always had pleasant memories here, and this last visit was no exception.

Our very spacious room 204

 

* * * * * * * * 

Ugo Serandrei is the opposite of an absentee landlord.  He is omnipresent, usually at his familiar desk, able to see and be seen by all the arriving and departing guests.  After over 50 years of running this Venetian landmark, he still comes to work seven days a week well before most of his clients have had their breakfast, and he is often still there when they come down for dinner in the evening.

“I spend many, many hours behind my desk here,” he said. “and I love it. I love it just as much today as when I started 50 years ago.”

 Three of Serandrei's children assist him (above), each sibling in charge of a different part of the hotel. 
 From left to right:  Gianni, next to his father, Kim and Greta-Zoe.   

As with the majority of properties in Venice, costs of maintaining even just the status quo --the non-stop job of protecting and preserving from the elements-- tend to be astronomical; and sometimes in a city where the price of real estate reaches unimaginable heights, the lure of an international chain might be hard to resist. I asked Serandrei if he ever thought of selling.

“Never!” he said, almost angry at the thought of such an unappealing idea.

“Many, many hotels in Venice have been sold little by little over the years to large companies. I have seen so many leave the hands of the original family.   It saddens me that they are all gone, all sold," he said.

“Of the important hotels, we are one of only two remaining family owned.  But we remain.  And as long as I am alive the Saturnia will never leave the family."

Andrea,  Lifting the Level ...

Andrea, The Saturnia's prize concierge

  

     Andrea Scarpa, the head concierge for the last 15 years, is possibly The Saturnia's most valuable asset.   He is one of those exceptional concierges who by virtue of his passion and talent for the metier, lifts the level of the hotel a notch or two.

«  He is very, very special, a wonderful concierge.  Ask him any question, he knows everything ! » said Serandrei.

A little like his boss, he likes to say he started at the bottom, though he calls it "the bottom of the top,” washing dishes at the Lido's premiere luxury hotel when he was 17 years old.

From there he climbed just about all the echelons in the hotel world –barman, waiter, night porter, accountant, finally concierge.

After reaching what seemed to be the pinnacle of his career, an important  boutique hotel offered him the plum job of managing director.   No sooner had he started preparing for this new executive job than he realized he had no desire to continue.  He soon left to return to his real love, that of concierge.

  “Management is quite particular.   It just isn't what attracts me in the hotel world.   I like to meet people, different people every day from all over the world.  I enjoy greeting Mister Pleasants and kissing the beautiful lady,” he said with a wink towards Brenda.

“It is the opposite of working in an office.   You have to speak all the languages (In addition to fluent French, Spanish and English, Andrea acquits himself impressively in Japanese as well).   And you must be able to do three things at once,” he explained, as he effortlessly answered the telephone, while simultaneously signalling for a bellboy and  collecting another guest's keys. 

“What I often ask myself is 'Why is Andrea still with the Saturnia when he could find higher paying positions with some of the finest hotels in the world,'” said owner Serandrei. “I just count my blessings that he chooses to remain with us.” 

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

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]