43 - Teensy Misbehaves at the Connaught!

THE CONNAUGHT HOTEL, London

The Connaught seen from Carlos Place (photo courtesy of the hotel)

The Connaught has always held a special place in the London Hotel firmament.    Historically the most elitist and probably the most snobby, it tended towards a more staid and older clientele, guests often coming as much for its discretion and privacy as for its understated luxury.

Grant in Hollywood circa 1938

It was always more where famous people went when they didn't wish to be seen.  Cary Grant (him again!) might have stayed at the Savoy if he were promoting a movie, but he definitely returned to the Connaught for some more anonymous peace and quiet.

I doubt if I had even heard of it the two years I lived in London.  It wasn’t until about 1990 that I discovered the Connaught Grill with its enticing prix-fixe menu.  It was a particularly amazing value for money at Sunday lunch, when a good English chef prepared some of the simple, old fashioned family-style dishes (like lamb roast or steak and kidney pie, and above all their spectacular bread and butter pudding).  It was always packed, and people-watching was as entertaining as the food.

A unique Connaught restaurant highlight was the mid-meal changing of the table cloth.   Every time I would imagine it just wouldn’t be possible.  Then before you realized what was happening, there were two, three or four waiters ever so discreetly removing plates and cutlery, then replacing –one corner at a time—the entire table cloth (albeit with a hidden, second cloth laying in wait underneath the first).

Each time it seemed like an extraordinary feat.  I’m afraid that after many decades of this tradition, the new guard seems to have abandoned this signature tour de force.

I only stayed at the Connaught once.  Needless to say, I had found a special promotion which made it somehow possible to justify the extravagance.  Unfortunately, that trip remains connected in my memory with a particularly negative experience.  No fault whatsoever of the hotel.

The Connaught's imposing stairway  (Trip Adviser photo)

I had an old college friend from North Carolina, later transplanted to Texas, who has remained close through most of my adult life.  He was very much like a brother, and I think the fact that he was born in the elegant Greenbrier Hotel in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia (a fluke of wartime requisitioning, but still what a sensational start to life!) was no small factor in cementing our long friendship.

His second wife, Teensy (well, we’ll call her that anyway) never quite appreciated my presence, and it was often fairly mutual.  I guess I didn’t always make the best effort, and she certainly didn’t either.

They were to be in London with their three teenaged children, and my old friend talked me into arranging a trip at the same time.  That was when I found the Connaught special.  They were close by at a friend's apartment off Grovesnor Square for the week, and I took the Eurostar over for the weekend.

It had been several years since I had last seen them, and as the trip was shortly after Christmas, I launched out on a special invitation in guise of belated Christmas gift.

I invited the family to join me at the Connaught for lunch, though with a couple of important stipulations: 1) that we all limit ourselves to the luncheon prix fixe menu and 2) for the three teenagers, no coca-colas (need I point out the financial ruin of a few soft drinks in that calibre of restaurant?).  Instead, I invited the group to my room before lunch for drinks, including cokes for the kids, which I had purchased from a neighborhood grocery store.   

I was immediately aware of a certain tension in the air.  Teensy was clearly unhappy that I was there, which was particularly unfortunate since I was the host.  I got the distinct impression that she saw me as ruining her London holiday.  Sensing disaster in the air, I made a silent vow to remain as dignified and polite as I could possibly manage.

I think I did quite well, and after a few minutes of extreme tension, I told myself I would turn this bad moment into a game whereby I would react to the negative vibes with a maximum of grace, act as though everyone was cordial and happy,  and that I would undoubtedly never have to receive her again.

Once in the restaurant, Teensy, in her first moment of vocal aggresivity, suggested that she might prefer to look at the more expensive à la carte menu just in case something else might tickle her fancy.  Ultimately, she didn’t quite dare go any further, and opted like the rest of us for the luncheon menu.

As I ordered wine and water for our party, she burst forth with a new defiance.  Turning to her youngest daughter, who began to squirm uncomfortably in her chair, she asked, “Wouldn’t you like a coca-cola?”  When the little girl, who knew exactly what was going on, replied in the negative, Teensy kind of lost her cool, and reiterated a bit louder, this time to the rest of the family:  “Are you sure you don’t want any soft drinks?”

That’s pretty much the end of the story.  The point was made.  No one actually had soft drinks, and it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if they had.  Suffice it to say we lunched under a certain strain.  Between the lamb and the dessert, the tablecloth was miraculously changed, but no one was in much of a mood to appreciate this special sleight of hand.

It’s all far in the past now.  I never saw Teensy again, and my college friend has since gone on to another wife. 

The Connaught seems to have successfully moved with the times.  The bars and lobby areas are now generally packed with exceedingly young, under-dressed, blazé whiz kids who probably excel in the worlds of finance and computers.  

A kind of social democracy arrived in London way back in the Swinging Sixties, but it took quite a few decades before finally reaching the Connaught.  The Grill has since changed names, with a new, very French restaurant in its place; and in the process it has lost much of the special charm it once held for me. 

The Connaught bar (Photo courtesy of the hotel)

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

Next Friday:  "My All-Time Best and Worst Hotel Memories"

42 - Turning Back The Clock at the ...

HOTEL LANGLOIS, Paris




The Langlois by night, the rue St. Lazare looking like something right out of a movie set (photo Martin Woods)

 
     Every once in a while, I receive a nightmare request:  to recommend an inexpensive, charming Parisian hotel with good-sized rooms and reasonably modern amenities; in a central, picturesque neighborhood; and preferably with U.S. news channels and free WiFi.

Experience has taught me that this is pretty nearly an impossible task.  Looking  back over the years, I would say that those neighborhood hotels I have reserved for friends have more often than not been met with disappointment.   

Once, a comfortably fixed North Carolinian whom I had put up in a 80-dollar (that was his limit) neighborhood hostelry complained to the desk clerk that he had received infinitely better service when staying at the Ritz!   Like, HELLO?  

The problem with recommending bargain hotels is that they are so subjective:  one person’s paradise can be another’s hell. 

  I remember years ago reading an Esquire interview with Jerry Lewis, who insisted he would never consider staying at any hotel in Europe other than the Hilton because –no matter what country he found himself in-- he could be certain that the room would be rigorously identical.  This interview turned me against Jerry Lewis for life, as it made him seem so foolish.  I can’t think of anything less appealing than a hotel which boasts all of its rooms to be identical.

I was  recently looking for a convenient place to house my Amsterdam friends, Martin and Marina, when I stumbled upon the Hotel Langlois.   Bingo!  I wonder if I haven’t uncovered that rare bird which just might fit a lot of travelers’ criteria! 

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY --Arrival of Marina (center) and Martin last month.
Martin was one of my earliest Parisian friends, and it was here 
at the Gare du Nord that their romance began some 37 years ago.

 Years ago, I was aware of what was then called “Les Croisés,” but  it was so discreet that I wasn’t even sure it was a hotel.   I had often noticed the elegant chandeliers at night, but wondered if it wasn’t some sort of private club.  I once met someone at a dinner party who told me that it was a special hotel of charm and distinction. 

Then I kind of forgot about it.  Though just around the corner, I don’t actually have occasion to walk by often, and had never seen the establishment first hand until a few weeks ago. 

 When you enter the Langlois today, it’s like walking into a time machine.  It could have beautifully served as one of the sets for Woody Allen’s delightful fantasy, “Midnight In Paris” where he found himself periodically transposed into 1920’s Paris.

Details from another era

Built in 1876, first as a bank, it transformed itself into a hotel shortly before the turn of the century.  For the next 100 years or so, it was certainly one of those rather refined, elegant middle-level hotels that appealed to ladies of “good family” in from the provinces and businessmen of a certain standing.

 There were many such hotels at the time of its creation, scattered across Paris and all over France.  By the 1950’s, these “bourgeois hotels,” as they were sometimes called, were still to be found with a little effort, but with the passing years, fewer and fewer in Paris resisted the call of chain groups or more lucrative uses of the real estate.

Which leads me to a rather extraordinary conclusion:  I wonder if the Langlois isn’t today just about the only hotel of its kind left in Paris.

View of an interior courtyard

 With its marble fireplaces, charming old oil paintings, wood-paneled wrought iron elevator, various art-nouveau and art-déco furnishings, and a myriad of quirky bric-a-brac, you get  more a feeling of being in a country home than in a big city hotel. 

Eleven years ago, the filmmaker Jonathan Demme (“Philidelphia" and “Silence of the Lambs”) was scouting out a location for a remake of the 50’s Audrey Hepburn-Cary Grant hit, “Charade", when he came upon what was then the Hotel Croisés. 

A stylish Grant leaving Claridge's in London (Google)

The film, “The Truth About Charlie” starred Mark Wahlberg and Thandie Newton.  It had a big budget, and seemed to have the ingredients for another international success.  

As it turned out, Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn were sorely missed, and  "Charlie" was a resounding flop.  Neither it nor its hotel setting were destined for any kind of lasting place in movie history. 

Plenty of room in Martin and Marina's old fashioned bathroom (photo by Martin Woods)

Hotel director Ahmet Abut (see sidebar) was delighted to rent out the entire building for the five weeks of shooting.  Wahlberg chose to stay at the Four Seasons, but many of the cast and crew moved into the hotel.  Abut, who looks back on the adventure with nostalgia, received a screen “thank you” in the closing titles.  

One of the hotel's three suites (Langlois photo)

"It was an unforgettable experience, and the film's failure at the box office was a shame, but it doesn't really matter.  It was still Jonathan Demme; he is still an important ... a great director," he said.  

"And it left beautiful memories for me and a wonderful trace in the history of my hotel."  

Abut was so pleased with the new insignia for the fictitious "Langlois" of the film that he decided to keep it and adopt its name for his establishment.  So, for the last decade the hotel boasts signs for both the Langlois and the original "Croisés."  

If you are looking for new and modern and trendy, then this is certainly not the place to go.  However, if you are attracted by a sort of authenticity, a genuine peek into what was once considered the “real” old France, then this charming old hotel is probably for you. 

And Martin and Marina were happy there.  At least I hope so.

Check-in (Martin at right)

SIDEBAR:  Ahmet Abut

Abut with Madame Bojena, the Langlois' house manager

When I first met Ahmet Abut recently in the Langlois' little lobby, he was keyed up with an almost childlike exhilaration from a recent auction acquisition.  

He could hardly wait to show me his latest buys, two beautiful wood-carved art-nouveau chairs, already very much at home in one of the hotel's second floor front rooms.  He had also recently bid on a  fine 1930's stained glass from a transatlantic company vaunting English Channel crossings, which now discreetly graces a little nook off from the reception desk.

An habitué, myself, of the Drouot Auction House, I had noticed  Mr. Abut there over the years, but generally he would be scouting out more prestigious sales, and our paths never officially crossed.

 His is an overflowing enthusiasm for the Langlois.  In addition to running

the 27-room neighborhood hotel, Abut is a procurer/buyer of fine art for the Pera Museum in Istanbul, which is the more official reason for finding himself most days at Paris’ auction houses.  At the same time that he looks for his museum, he is also scouting the sale rooms for special pieces to enhance his hotel.

 “Every new purchase puts into value this beautiful property,” he says with a contagious passion for his later-life profession.  He claims to put most of the profits back into the hotel with a constant search for pieces of quality, trying to find that rare object “which will illuminate or even transform one of my rooms.” 

A native of Turkey and Parisian since 1970, Abut has directed the Langlois for the last 15 years.  “You have to always remember that a hotel room must replace the guest’s whole house, so I do everything to make it comfortable and attractive," he said.

Flower boxes ouside second floor rooms

“The Langlois is not a palace, but each room has a soul of its own.  The world is constantly changing, but I try to make sure that the Langlois retains its charm. 

"Our guests have chosen us, and I must be up to the challenge of this compliment, so that the client will want to come back and stay at the Langlois again.”  

At 70, Abut has no thoughts of retirement.  “I have no interest in it.  I have always done what I loved in life, and I’d like to continue.  I have a passion for art, for archaeology, and for this hotel.  Why would I want to stop?

“I have only one wish, that is to die one day –certainly not in my bed, asleep!-- either at the auction house buying a painting or here working in my hotel."  

He paused for dramatic effect, then added:  "That is my wish, but not for another 25 or 30 years if possible.”

 

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

Next Friday:  "Teensie Misbehaves at The Connaught"

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Martin and Marina were also mentioned in blog No. 22, "Duplicate Ticketing" Jan. 25 (to access, click on above title).

41 - A Great Gatsbyesque Lunch

LA RESERVE, Beaulieu France

Sommelier Jean-Louis Valla in the Restaurant des Rois' formal dining room

      La Reserve is a small luxury hotel looking over the Mediterranean Sea in Beaulieu, a charming resort village between Monaco and Nice.  The pink palace, first opened in 1880 as a seaside restaurant, was like so much of this formerly-Italian part of the Riviera, constructed in the style of the Florentine Renaissance.  With its early success, several rooms were added in 1905 when it officially became a hotel for winter visitors.

It has attracted a moneyed and celebrity clientele since well before the 1920’s when the Scott Fitzgeralds and Somerset Maugham graced its portals.  They were later joined by locals Cocteau and Picasso.   After the Second World War, Charlie Chaplin gave it his seal of approval, followed by countless Hollywood notables, including Rita Hayworth and Frank Sinatra.  

La Reserve has always counted an important American contingent ever since eccentric newspaper magnate, Gordon Bennett, put it on the map with his patronage and press coverage in the early years of the new century.  Bennett, lifelong francophile and owner of the New York Herald, is still remembered today in his namesake bar with a prominently placed portrait and biography.

Our friend, sommelier Catherine, formerly at the Negresco Hotel in Nice, later at the Reserve, had repeatedly urged us to try their very swank Restaurant des Rois.  We already looked into it two years ago, but the prices were just too steep for any serious consideration.

Brenda posing for a pre-lunch portrait

In the ensuing two years, the international monetary crisis has paid everyone a visit –from myself to the grandest of  the grand hotels.   On our visit to nearby Nice last month, I took another look at the Reserve’s website, and bingo!  things seemed to be looking up for us budget minded grand hotel groupies. 

As I’ve previously explained, I tend to limit any forays into grand restaurants to their lunchtime prix fixe, which can often be top value for money.   The Restaurant des Rois, which has garnered a number of top culinary awards, is closed for lunch during the summer season when daytime meals move poolside and prices can go sky-high.  

However, arriving in the South of France this year at the tail end of April, I saw that the restaurant was still open at lunchtime for two more days.  And that was not all.  It was now proposing an unbeatable all-inclusive meal for well under half their evening prices.  We rushed to book, and counted ourselves lucky to snag a reservation for that final lunch of the off-season.

It had been an uncharacteristically dreary weather week in Nice, with lots of rain and very gray horizons.  Then just as we hopped on the regional bus for the spectacular 30-minute trip to Beaulieu, the skies opened up to --not another rain storm-- glorious sun, and the beautiful weather held for our entire day out.   It was a good omen.

This is --believe it or not-- the almost non-stop view through the bus window (cost of one-way trip: one euro!)

 When I had called earlier to enquire, I was already disappointed to learn that our friend, Catherine, had left the hotel a few months earlier.  Upon arrival, I had the additional disappointment of discovering that the starred chef had also recently gone to new horizons.

Then imagine our surprise upon entering the exquisite dining room to find ourselves the restaurant’s unique diners!   

 We were met by the imposing and exceedingly warm welcome of Jean-Louis Valla, the hotel’s veteran wine steward.  He told us to make ourselves at home, and as the dining room was to be our private domaine, to give some serious thought to which table might best suit our fancy.  With such a charming and personal welcome, any hint of disappointment was soon dispelled.  We soon realized we had found ourselves in a privileged situation.

The Gordon Bennett Bar.  Notice Jean-Louis' Hitchkockian profile in the distance

We never dreamed we’d be all to ourselves in such palatial splendor.  A bit disconcerting at first,  I quickly took a liking to the unique, Gatsbyesqueness of the moment.

A table by the sea

 With our pick, we naturally chose a window seat, overlooking a superb azure sea.  This being said, pretty much all the tables are equally well placed, with a similar vantage point.  Those that don’t directly face the sea look onto the hotel's elegant garden.

Jean-Louis explained that a young, new chef, Romain Corbières, had recently taken charge in the kitchen, and he assured us we would not be disappointed.  We were not. 

It ranked certainly as one of our best meals, ever!  And that is saying a lot. 

Such attention ... just for the two of us!

The following photos give a good idea of the quality of this exceptional lunch.  Bravo Chef Corbières!

A few surprise tasters, including a mouth-watering foie gras "ball"

The absolute piece de resistance: our asparagus starter with an asparagus and herb puree, and could you ever imagine the identity of that round golden brown object?  Believe it or not, it is a perfectly poached egg somehow encased in a crispy paper-thin breadcrumb jacket.

A glass of Chablis for Brenda

 

 A local filleted white fish with its ratatouille sauce and potato concoction

Amin gave us impeccable attention.  It was his last day before joining the Navy.

A stunning lemon souffle with an indescribable lime  topping, for Brenda a raspberry delight

Just in case we might still have been a bit hungry, a few delicious do-dads to go with the coffee!

SIDEBAR:  Gordon Bennett

Newspaper portrait of the scandalous Bennett circa 1890

     James Gordon Bennett Jr. was a great eccentric with a journalistic flair for creating, as well as selling and promoting, the news.

Bennett inherited a news empire which included the New York Herald.  At a time when journalism was usually a pretty staid affair, he managed to inject color and zip into his newspapers, never discouraging a bit of sensationalism. In the process, he greatly increased circulation and his personal fortune.

Some say the ruthless Charles Dana Kane character in the Orson Welles film Citizen Kane was partially based on Bennett, though the main model was Bennett's archrival William Randolph Hearst.

In 1868, he dispatched his ace newsman Henry Morton Stanley to darkest Africa to track down missionary and explorer David Livingstone. After months of searching and realms of colorful dispatches, the inevitable meeting resulted in perhaps the all-time most famous journalistic punchline :

« Dr. Livingstone, I presume ? »  

Herald newspaper illustrator's rendition of the historic meeting (Google)

Bennett is also credited with scooping all his competitors with graphic news reports in 1876 of « Custer's Last Stand. »

The Guinness Book of Records lists him as holder of the world's « Greatest Engagement Faux Pas »for the manner in which his engagement to socialite Caroline May was broken off in 1877.

It was reported (though not in his own newspapers) that at an engagement party given for the couple by his fiancée's father, Bennett arrived late and drunk, and that he relieved himself in a fireplace in the ballroom at the May mansion, in full view of his future in- laws and their astonished guests.

The Mays had never been enthusiastic about the courtship, and they were not amused. The marriage was canceled, and Bennett moved definitively to Europe where he remained single for another 36 years.

Bennett divided the last years of his life between Paris and Beaulieu where he had discovered La Réserve.  Directing his news empire from a distance (and having created a respected English-language newspaper in Paris, the grandfather of the present International Herald Tribune), he published numerous articles about the Riviéra hotel, which brought a growing number of well-heeled guests to the Beaulieu hostelry in the decade preceding the First World War. His influence was such that even today he is revered as the mécene who first put the luxury establishment on the map.

In addition to promoting La Réserve, Bennett was a passionate sports fan.  He organized the first polo match in the U.S. in 1876, later founding the Westchester Polo Club, another first in America.  He created and funded the Gordon Bennett Cup for international yachting and a similar cup for automobile races.  In 1906 he established a prestigious ballooning race in France which continues today.  Already in 1909 he had set up a trophy for the fastest speed on a closed circuit for airplanes.

Flamboyant and often erratic to the end, Bennett married for the first time at 73. Suffering from severe financial reversals at the time, he wed the Baroness de Reuter, millionairess widow of the news agency founder.

Bennett died in 1918 in Beaulieu near his beloved La Réserve. 

Later day portrait in the South of France 

 

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

Next Friday:  "Turning Back the Clock at the Hotel Langlois"

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]
 

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

La Reserve and another lunch at Le Restaurant des Rois is also featured in sidebar to blog No. 53 "Looking for Carlotta"  (to access, click on title).

40 - The Paris Riots of 1968

HOTEL DE LILLE, Paris

Paris seriously heating up, May 1968 (AFP photo)

      I would be hard put to choose the absolute grandest hotel I have ever known, but I would have no problem whatsoever in discerning the least grand of them all:  the Hotel de Lille. 

It was the first hotel I discovered in France when I came in May of 1968 on what was in essence my first adult vacation trip.  My Greensboro friend and erstwhile landlord Philip had spent most of the previous year in residence there writing a book on George Sand, and his recommendation had seemed to be one of great sophistication.  

He had explained that it was a real Parisian’s hotel, with none of that private bathtub-toilet foolishness.

Greensboro, May 1968.  The week of my departure.

My 1968 vacation coincided with the dramatic May riots which had pretty much brought the French government of Charles de Gaulle  to its knees and the country to a standstill.    

  It was towards the end of the disturbances, and my flight from New York was one of the first to resume service.  The Parisian airport was still shut down (as well as all public transport), so we landed a couple of hours from the city at a military base, then were bused to the capital. 

I may have been country-bumpkin green, but I was very determined, and I had no problem in finishing the last mile or so of the journey to the Hotel de Lille on foot.  Never mind the large suitcase, and I'm pretty sure mine didn't have wheels in those days.

The Latin Quarter just around the corner from my hotel (Google)

I've always had such a bad sense of direction, I can’t imagine how I found my way.  I know I had no map, but the bus driver must have told me which street to take, and when I try to mentally retrace my steps today, I can see how the walk would have been pretty straightforward.

Frances and Martha with my father
sometime in the 1960's

Seen from the covers of just about all the international news magazines, it looked like Paris was burning down, and both my Aunts Frances and Martha had telephoned me in Greensboro to listen to reason and cancel the trip to France.  It never occurred to me to heed their counsel, and once there, I was thrilled to be one of Paris' rare tourists.

Arriving at my hotel, I was met by its very stout patronne, literally with open arms.  She gave all appearances of being really delighted to finally see a client after weeks of empty rooms.

Before checking in, I persisted in trying out my Berlitz phrase whereby I requested to view the room first.  Madame David spoke no English, but she understood my request, and was only too happy to oblige.  I still remember her expression of benign bemusement, as if she were wondering --seeing me arrive with my heavy luggage and covered in sweat--  where in the world else I thought I might be going.

On the steps of a deserted Sacre Coeur (photo by ?)

In retrospect, it was a pretty dismal hotel, run down and not even special value for the price.  It was one of the rare small Parisian hotels at that time which didn't lock up after midnight; this contributed to its sulphurous reputation, as there were plenty of comings and goings throughout the night to which the owners turned a blind eye.

An unrecocnizably chic 40 rue de Lille today

  At the time I saw none of the downsides.  I was convinced that it embodied the "real" Paris, and I never found it anything other than folkloric and charming.  

 I once saw it mentioned fleetingly in a James Ivory film situated in the Paris of the 1920's, which seemed surely to be a wink of the eye to a hotel Ivory, himself, must have graced with his presence in poorer days.

   I always stayed at the Lille when coming over from London in 1969, then resided there for almost a month when I moved to Paris the following year.  My residency ended when someone in the hotel employ relieved me of my money which I had thought cleverly hidden in a sewn up pocket of my one-suit jacket.   This made it essential to find an immediate, salaried job.

The Lille was sold in the late 1970’s, and like so many other little holes in the wall of questionable hygiene of the day, it was gutted and tarted up into a boutique hotel, turned into something both comfortable and relatively expensive.  Today, only the name and the address remain the same.

Fast-foward to 2013.  A mini-lobby where there was none, including complimentary laptop.  It was my first trip back in 40 years when  I stopped by recently to take a few photos.  It was a little like stumbling into a time machine.  Who could have imagined such luxury back in 1968?

Stairway leading to breakfast room, unimaginable once upon a time (but then so was the rest of my life)!

READER COMMENT –Letter from Joel Fletcher  

Another witty reaction to today’s piece from Fletcher, art dealer and blogger, author of “Ken and Thelma” (Pelican Publishing Company).

      How many memories I have of May 68!  I was living on Avenue d'Eylau,  far away from the action ...the only political act I witnessed in my neighborhood was an elderly woman putting Gaullist leaflets on car windshields...but my friend Emira Samia Jazery  and I were gassed  one evening coming out of the St. Michel Metro, and I was present for the historic moment  when Jean-Louis Barrault at the Odeon made to the students his famous Bienvenue speech that later cost him his job.

    My parents were watching Paris burning on TV and my mother telephoned to find out if I were still alive. I assured her that I was. "Well," she said, "Last year you were in Florence and there was a flood; this year you're in Paris and there's a revolution. Everywhere you go, son, there's a disaster!"

    "I'm coming home for Christmas, Momma,"  I replied.

___________

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

Next Friday:  "A Great Gatsbyesque Lunch ... La Reserve in Beaulieu"

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]