48 - Back to Venice and The Gritti!

THE GRITTI PALACE, Venice 

A super-luxurious room 210 of the Punta della Dogana suite with its original 16th Century floor and ceiling

 

     After all these years, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see Venice or The Gritti again.

Closed since 2011, this grandest of all Venetian hotels (though the word "hotel" is no longer officially used, it is just “Gritti Palace”) reopened last February after a 35-million dollar facelift.

The result is nothing short of stupendous, as the 16^th century home of the 77^th Venetian Doge, Andrea Gritti, has been meticulously renovated and revived.  The aim was never to change, but to restore and preserve.

“It was an investment that the Gritti deserved!” said Managing Director Paolo Lorenzoni in a recent chat in the hotel’s elegant Longhi Bar.

 

Il Diretorre Lorenzoni

  Lorenzoni directed the renovations, and he takes understandable pride in his “new” finely polished jewel on the Grand Canal.

“I sometimes think of us like a Patek Philippe watch.   It is a jewel of distinction which is often handed down through the generations.   We have returning clients who are the children and now the grandchildren of our loyal guests who began when we first opened in 1948.”

Most suites are named after former guests, such as Peggy Guggenheim who celebrated her 80^th birthday at the Gritti and whose museum lies across the Grand Canal in front of her suite.  The Hemingway Suite is a homage to the celebrated writer who spent several months here between 1948 and 1953.  In fact, he wrote much of “Across the River and Into the Woods” while at the Gritti, and he mentions the hotel at least 15 times in his novel.   Not to forget the Somerset Maugham Suite, named after the British novelist who would set up residence, for several weeks most years, between 1948 and 1976. 

It had been well over ten years since I was last in Venice, and when the opportunity arose to take a look at the restored Gritti, we decided to replicate, as much as feasible, my early trips to Italy in the 1970’s.

The old, comfortable night trains are increasingly a thing of the past, but an Italian company has recently begun a service of sleeping cars on the Paris-Venice run, and we decided to give it a try.   In addition to giving you time to enjoy the landscape, it allows for a full day in Venice upon arrival and another before departing.

Early morning, first glimpse of Venice from our train compartment

And nothing beats the traditional early morning arrival by train into Venice.   A few minutes before reaching our destination, the train is suddenly surrounded by water, the Venice Lagoon, as we make our way into the City of Doges on a kind of causeway to the Santa Lucia Station which sits smack in front of the Grand Canal.

 

Knock-out view from our balcony

  Our stay at the Gritti was like a dream.  Though apparently fully booked, the personnel always gave the impression of offering  exclusive attention to each guest.  And what a wonderful surprise:  Thanks to the kind help of Sr. Lorenzoni, we had the great fortune of finding ourselves in the prized Punta della Dogana suite.

Nowhere is service more refined, more attentive, more personalized than in the Venetian hotel world, of which The Gritti Palace surely reigns supreme.

“At the Gritti you are not a guest, you are a friend,” Somerset Maugham once said.

“We try to treat the Gritti like a private home, not a hotel,” said Lorenzoni.   “Many of our guests feel the same way.”

Speaking for myself, I couldn’t agree more. 

 

SIDEBAR:  The People who make it work

A glimpse into the Club del Doge Restaurant with a few chandelier

baubles of Murano crystal in the foreground

No matter how beautiful or how comfortable a hotel may be, it is inevitably the personnel who make or break its reputation.

Italy is universally known for its impeccable training throughout the service industry, and the Gritti's staff is a fine example.  I think I can safely say that the team there today is the best I have ever encountered.

 The « performance » of a hotel's personnel is much like the ensemble playing in a chamber orchestra, one false note can ruin the whole.   Fortunately there were no false notes discernible.

Romina

  Starting with our reception by Romina, who checked us in with such a personable welcome, by the time she had introduced us to our rooms, we felt like old friends.   It seemed that everyone we encountered, like Romina, had a true passion for what they were doing.  You quickly get the feeling that the staff is fiercely proud of this unique palace and of their part in its running.

Valentina

A prime example was Valentina, who began her career as assistant at the switchboard last February when the Gritti reopened.  This has been her first job after receiving  a Milan University degree in modern languages (she speaks beautiful English and French, and though I am in no position to judge, also masters Russian). 

  Like many employees over the years who have started in modest posts, Valentina would like to branch out one of these days, hopefully using her people skills in management.

Then there was Antonella (above), who efficiently and with a real panache coordinated our breakfast on the del Doge terrace, filled to capacity the day we were there –taking orders, laughing and conversing with guests, while simultaneously dispatching waiters and monitoring orders with the kitchen.

   The most special hotel profession of all is bound to be that of concierge.   He is the member of staff who undoubtedly has the most interaction, can make things happen or not, and ultimately can be responsible for the overall success or failure of a guest's holiday.  

Umberto, 25 years later

I was delighted to reacquaint myself with Umberto, the « Good Samaritan » of 25 years ago of whom I spoke in musing No. 17 (click here to see).   When I first met him in the 1980's, he had taken my luggage and shown me to my room.  He is now first assistant to the head concierge. 

Giuliano has been working at the Gritti for over 40 years, and has in recent years attained the important post of head concierge.  We chatted several times, and like Umberto, he gave all appearances of still enjoying his job tremendously.  Despite what he described as the « dangerously high stress level » which goes with the territory. 

Giuliano, 40 years on the job, now head concierge

I was flattered when he took me into an ante room off the concierge's counter (for me, like going backstage at a Broadway hit !), where he pointed out, not without emotion, framed photos of some of his former colleagues on the concierge team who have died.   I was particularly saddened to learn of the recent death of Franco, who had been head concierge on my first visit to the Gritti in 1980.
 
 As Managing Director Lorenzoni says, "It is the client who is the most important.   But very close after comes our employees, they are after all what creates the personality and assures the efficiency of our palace.   We respect our employees, and it shows." 

The Concierge Station

 

 A FEW SNAPSHOTS:  Three memorable days at the Gritti

Feeling almost "at home" in our exceedingly grand living room, with priceless corner view on the Grand Canal, it is surprising how quickly you can get accustomed to such luxury!  

 

The bedroom was not bad either!

 

It is often the details that count, as attests this perfectly presented orchid on the side of our marble bathtub.

A first peek of the Gritti upon entering from the street, with view onto the concierges' counter (above).  Below, two snapshots of the newly refurbished public lounge areas.

 

 

The Longhi Bar, aptly named after the 18th century Venetian master whose paintings adorn its walls

Last but not least, the unforgettable view from the terrace of the Longhi Bar at twilight

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, the Night Porter", No. 23 "Mrs. X at The Gritti", No. 31 "Fire, Water and a Bloody Fall" No. 17 "Celebrating the Holidays Away From Home" and "Looking Back To Venice ... and Paul Newman"  (to access, click on title).

 

44 - The Best and the Worst

 

RAFFLES, THE GRITTI, THE CARLYLE AND THE PLAZA ATHENEE

Evening on the terrace of The Gritti's Club del Doge (hotel photo)

Back in January I said I’d save my all-time best and worst hotel experiences for later.  As this blog's first season soon comes to a close, it seems a fitting time to look back at my personal F.P.H.M. awards*.

I’ll start with the most disappointing:  The Carlyle in New York City sometime in the early 1990’s.   

As a teenager, I had read and associated the Carlyle with the Kennedy “Camelot Years.”  It was generally conceded to have been the New York branch of the White House, and in addition to being home away from home to the various Kennedy  families, it was also rumored  to be the discreet place of rendez-vous for John and Bobby with various mistresses.

My room at the Carlyle 1993

I think to be perfectly fair, my expectations were too high and my means too low.  I had profited from a particularly attractive weekend special, far less expensive than usual, and once there, I really felt like the poor relation.  

 My room had everything it was supposed to, but was small, cramped and somehow lacking in the kind of glow you expect from a great hotel. It had two large windows, but with a view of a brick wall.

When checking out, I left two postcards with the concierge.  A couple of weeks later, back in Paris, I received a form letter saying I had forgotten to settle my account for two stamps, and that the amount had been deducted from my credit card.

It was like making a statement that return business was not something that especially appealed to them!

* * * * * * * *

 Number 2 least satisfying memory:   It was on a fluke that I decided to spend the night at a hotel in my own city.  I spent Christmas Eve 1989 alone at the Plaza Athenée, admittedly an eccentric choice for someone living just a mile or so away.

My room at the Plaza 1989

I don’t remember how I found out, as it was well before the internet, but I had come across a super discount which only applied on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. 

The hotel was pretty close to empty, but that didn’t help me to get a nicer room.  Mine was certainly among their least glamorous, despite a grand chandelier.  The bed was huge, but the chairs were lumpy, and my 24 hour stay was just barely acceptable.

There may have been some sort of personnel problem, as the few employees still on duty around the reception area seemed kind of discontented, even sullen when I arrived. 

 Checking out shortly after noon on Christmas Day, I can see myself now with my little overnight duffle bag, walking through the lobby, not succeeding in making eye contact with anyone.  Out the revolving doors without so much as a goodbye.  No one at any of the reception stations bothered to look up as I departed, let alone wish me a Merry Christmas!

Just so I don’t over-dramatize these two booby prize hotel memories, I have to admit that I continue today to sometimes frequent both establishments, though certainly have not been back to spend the night.    

Over the years I have continued to pass through the Carlyle’s magnificent black marble lobby from time to time.  It remains one of the great hotel entrances.  Brenda and I spent a wonderful evening two years ago, seated at the bar (the only financially justifiable way to afford this very expensive supper club) of the Café Carlyle for Debbie Reynolds’ show, and last year we returned for an evening with Woody Allen and his Dixieland Band.

The same applies for the Plaza Athenée, where we sometimes enjoy Sunday lunch in their Relais Plaza grill room.

So I had a bad experience or two once upon a time.  Life goes on, it is all fodder for my unusual  hobby, and I am too much a hotel fanatic to hold unnecessary grudges.    

* * * * * * * * 

Now for the best:

It goes without saying, this is all totally subjective.  Big drum rolls ....

 

Raffles, Singapore 2000

My first stay at the mythical Raffles in Singapore ranks high.  I hadn’t realized that the hotel only had apartments, and I couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked into mine and discovered three exquisite rooms with a beautiful private patio. 

Upon arrival, I discovered a magnificent arrangement of exotic fruit.  Every day thereafter, regardless of how much or how little I had consumed, the fruit bowl was replaced with a new display of fresh and colourful  goodies. 

First bedroom at Raffles

Once settled in, I noticed that I was next door to one of the more prized apartments, the Ava Gardner Suite, where the North Carolina native had once had a prolonged stay while filming “Bhowani Junction” in the mid-1950’s. 

Raffles houseboys

As human nature often sees to it that we are never quite satisfied with what we are given, I began to regret not having found myself in the A.G. Suite, even though it was the last thing I needed or could have afforded.

  Be that as it may, I noticed the door ajar the next morning.  The houseboys were changing the bed linens, and I jumped at the chance to peek inside.  As nice as it was, it gave me a renewed appreciation for my own Raffles quarters, because, other than the shape of a couple of chairs and the color of some of the fabrics, our suites appeared to be identical.  Except for a few hundred dollars in price!

Raffles rooftop pool

* * * * * * * *

 My first trip to the Gritti Palace in Venice ties with Raffles for all-time top hotel memory.  Par for the course, I had found a really inexpensive off-season (it was mid-December) special.   

The first morning when I went down to the elegant Club del Doge restaurant, I was somewhat taken aback by the prices on the breakfast menu.  I knew that mine was ostensibly included, but as there was no buffet, and as I had no possibility of going a penny over my all-inclusive budget, I realized I’d have to  ascertain exactly what might and might not be incuded in my forfeit.  

The Gritti Palace today, like entering another world

I finally summoned the courage to question the restaurant manager, as to what I was actually allowed.   Giancarlo was an imposing figure, and I didn’t want to appear unnecessarily gauche.

  He seemed to know precisely who I was and what were the conditions of my hotel package.  “Whatever pleases you,” he said.  “Feel free to order anything on the menu, and have no fear, it is included in the price of your room."  

Giancarlo on the Club del Doge Terrace 1994

 On later trips I got to know Giancarlo better, and realized he didn’t see himself as imposing at all.  I once took a photo of him outside the terrace restaurant, and he sent me a touching note after I returned to Paris.

Whereas I saw him as the epitome of sophistication and imagined him growing up in the refined environment of Venice, he told me he was born in a tiny country village in southern Sicily where his old mother still lived.  He said she had hardly ever been to mainland Italy and then only to the Campania region around Naples.

He explained that his mother had never had a very clear idea of his life away from Sicily.  When he sent her the photo I had taken he was already nearing retirement age, and she told him that for the very first time she was able to understand the elegance of  his life, working in a palace like the Gritti.

View from room 215 at The Gritti, my first and best room with a view

 *Frank Pleasants' Hotel Musings awards.

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

Next Friday:  "End of the Season Au Revoir"

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Raffles and The Gritti were also featured in blog No. 31, "Fire, Water, and a Bloody Fall " April 5, 2013;  the Gritti in No. 17, "Celebrating the Holidays Away from Home" Dec. 21, 2012; No. 10, "Danny the Night Concierge," Nov. 11, 2012 and No. 23, "Mrs. X at The Gritti" Feb. 8, 2013.  The Plaza Athenée and The Gritti were featured in No. 13 "Those Silver-Spooned Children" Nov. 23, 2012 (to access, click on above titles).

23 - 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

Next Friday:  "Living it up on a budget"

  [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).

21 - The Paris Hiltons and the Ukrainian Mafia

 

THE ROYAL HOTEL, San Remo, Italy

One of several lobby areas at the Royal

     Before reconnecting and joining me in Paris in 2006, Brenda lived awhile in Nice, and she has kept a rental property there where we spend part of our time when in France.

We took the train last year across the Italian border to San Remo for a few days at the Royal Hotel.  I was last at the Royal on my first trip to the Riviera 34 years ago.

On the balcony --room with a view

The hotel has remarkably remained a family-owned enterprise for 140 years.  San Remo --now a bit overgrown and under planned-- is no longer considered such a select vacation destination.    I had feared a decline at the Royal, but my worries were unfounded, as the hotel has remained a class act, and the Italian personnel is, to a man, warm and efficient.

My first telephone contact with a most congenial reservations clerk already started things off swimmingly.  Simona had suggested that if I had the flexibility of moving my dates a month earlier, the hotel could offer a more seductive deal.

Entrance to the Royal at twilight

 We ultimately opted for the Anniversary Package (“No anniversary necessary,” she assured me, “and friendlier prices.”), and in addition to all sorts of perks –breakfast, fruit, champagne, massage, etc.—we were guaranteed an upgrade to a sea view junior suite.  The upgrade turned out to be a double one, as we were given a stunning “penthouse junior suite de luxe,” which was a long way from the double room paid for.

Despite fairly high occupancy during our stay, both the concierge staff and restaurant personnel amazingly remembered our name every time they saw us.  It brought back to mind my first trip to the Gritti Palace in Venice.

The first afternoon by the pool we noticed an abundance of Russian chatter.  One couple stood out as kind of a caricature of what we loosely and unkindly call the Ukrainian mafia here in the south of France (see sidebar “On the Riviera”).

Broderick Crawford (Google)

The "Hilton" sisters, poolside

 He was something of a Slavic Broderick Crawford, if you can picture a rougher version of the “Highway Patrol” actor in wet tighty-whities*, she –tall, overweight and demanding—wore a skimpy age-inappropriate bikini.  

 The next morning at breakfast, Brenda was intrigued by two Paris Hilton look-alike/act-alikes.  One was blonde and the other, a redhead.  They were younger, prettier, apparently equally spoiled copies of the original, with red, red lips and a permanent pout.

We assumed they were American, but to our surprise they were soon met by their parents who turned out to be none other than the slavik Broderick Crawford and his blonde wife.

In no time at all they were creating a scene, as they felt all the good garden tables had been taken, and Mrs. Broderick Crawford did not wish to sit just anywhere with other hotel residents.

After some negotiating, I overheard a discreetly exasperated maitre d’hotel, as if speaking to four very small children, propose opening up an adjoining dining room “so you can have all the space you need and choose whichever table makes you happy.”

As they marched into the empty restaurant annex, the whole family seemed quite pleased with its little victory, oblivious to the fact they had been relegated to Siberia.

A very comfortable room 528

 *TIGHTY WHITIES :  Newspeak underwear description, transmitted to me by my delightfully ivy league nephew, Ryan, as opposed to what he considers the more acceptably trendy boxers.

SIDEBAR :  On the Riviera

Menton, looking across the harbor at the old town

Both the French and Italian Rivieras historically counted on British and Russian tourists.

Queen Victoria led the way in the late 19^th century when she added Nice to her list of regular winter villégiatures.  She was soon joined by throngs of well-heeled Londoners escaping the fog and damp.

1900 postcard art

Tchaikowsky set the pace on the Liguria Riviera when he set up residence in San Remo at the turn of the century.

Americans soon adopted the rivieras, particularly the French side, after the First World War, turning the Nice-Antibes-St. Raphael triangle into an elitist Anglo-Saxon literary colony, staked out as the personal playground of Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Somerset Maugham, to name but a few.

Today, the Americans, hit by a reversal of fortune similar to that which sent them home after the onset of the Great Depression, have all but disappeared.  Of course there are still plenty of U.S. tourists, but they are far outnumbered by their more affluent asian and middle eastern counterparts.

The Scott Fitzgeralds, Antibes 1926 (Google photo)

 The British are still numerous around Nice, but they are now often year-round residents, trying to stretch their pension a little further than might be possible back in England.

The Russians, who emigrated around the time of the Revolution, had pretty much died out by the 1970’s, and ceased to be a part of the Riviera landscape.  In recent years, however, they are back, but of a very different variety, most often in flashy clothes, big cars, and for the last decade, buying up the biggest houses on the Cote d’Azur.  

There are, in fact, two kinds of ex-Soviet residents now in view here:  young, single, usually attractive girls in search of a benefactor make up the first group.  Whatever their original aspirations, they frequently find their calling on the streets of Nice and neighboring resort villages.

The others come en famille and they generally seem to have unlimited supplies of money.  They are the ones we refer to as the Ukrainian mafia, even though we have no proof of either their nationality or their source of income.

The Sporting beach at Nice, off-season

 

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

Next Friday:  "Those little memory lapses, a night in Rotterdam "

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]