Around And About Hanoi

HOTEL METROPOLE, Hanoi

Hanoi street scene 2003, the way it was

      I’ve been to Hanoi on three occasions, and always stayed at the venerable Hotel Metropole,

The first time, thanks to a low-cost United alliance package, followed stopovers in Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore and Bali.  For a world traveler I’m not much of an adventurer; my destinations are much influenced by where the mythic hotels are to be found. 

On this first around-the-world trip in 2000, I learned the necessity of juggling some really cheap lodgings with the more costly ones, plus a few guest rooms with friends along the way. 

A city of contrasts ... of cacaphony and elegance and color

  

The off-season summer in Vietnam can be blisteringly hot, and I lucked into a special deal of just over 100 dollars with full breakfast.  The biggest reason for the price was that the trip coincided with the waning days of a major SARS (viral pneumonia) epidemic throughout Asia, and tourists were few and far between.

Traveling alone and paying far less than normal rack rate, I began to fear a kind of discrimination of the poor.  I was afraid of finding myself, if not in a broom closet, perhaps in lesser accommodations than I might hope for.

I decided to reach out to the hotel’s managing director, a Frenchman recently named to the job.  I labored for days on the letter in which I more or less threw myself at his mercy, stating my passion for historic hotels, and making it clear that my means did not match my tastes.   

Explaining that I had long dreamed of staying there before finding  this bargain-price promotion, I pretty much implored him to find it in his heart to put me in one of the nicer rooms in the hotel’s original, historic wing.

Let me be clear, this tactic doesn’t necessarily give any results, but I figure there is nothing to lose, and in this case I was rewarded in spades.  My room was spacious, elegant, and with just the right touch of old-world Asia.  I don’t know that I’ve ever been happier with a hotel, and I let the management know.

First room at the Metropole 2000

It is surprising how rarely clients show their enthusiasm, though positive reaction seems to give a lot more pleasure than you’d imagine.  Those involved in the running of these out of the ordinary, historic hotels are almost always proud and passionate about their properties.  They are usually thrilled to hear that their efforts are appreciated.

 With Brenda in 2008 (above), we were upgraded to club class.  Stil, it just lacked that note of old world authenticity that I had so enjoyed my first time at the Metropole.

* * * * * * * *

Life around the Metropole 1904  (photo Sofitel)

Of  all the world class hotels I have visited, the Metropole has probably seen more ups and downs than any other.  When it opened in the summer of 1901, it was undisputedly the pride and joy of France’s extended colonial empire.

Separate rickshaws for honeymooning Goddard and Chaplin 1936  (photo google archives)

Charlie Chaplin chose it in 1936 to spend part of his honeymoon with third wife Paulette Goddard.   He was purportedly surprised when thousands of local Vietnamese crowded the streets to greet him.  Noel Coward, Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene were among the British literati  spending time at the French hotel in its heyday.

After the French were booted home in 1954, the Metropole began a long slide from its former glory. 

By the time of  the outbreak of what the Vietnamese call “The American War” in 1965, the Metropole was no longer recognizable as a grand hotel, though it still received some foreign journalists, diplomats and peace activists.

Jane (google archives)

Immediately prior to the arrival of Jane Fonda in 1972, soldiers were sent with brooms to run screaming down the long corridors in an attempt to frighten the rats away.  It is said that they were more successful in dislodging the rodents than they were with the bats which continued to soar through the hallways after dark.

Joan (google archives)

Although Fonda is the celebrity best remembered for her two-week visit towards the end of the war, she was not the only one.  Joan Baez also toured the communist capital and gave an impromptu concert, singing for the troops in the hotel’s bunker during U.S. air raids around Christmas of 1972.  The government had constructed an important air-raid shelter in the courtyard, which is still in existence underneath the hotel’s swimming pool.   

Hanoi pagoda 2008, days of the beard  (photo B. Paladini)

 

Click below to view Vietnam photo album

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

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

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).

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).

 

31 - Fire, Water and a bloody fall

CLARIDGES, THE GRITTI and RAFFLES

Claridge's grand stairway seen from the main lobby (photo by Luxist)

Sometimes unrehearsed hotel dramas can be something of a treat.  At least they can leave a more special memory than expected.

On my first ever night at Claridge’s in London I was awakened from a deep sleep at 3 a.m. by ear-shattering sirens.  It was the hotel’s major fire alarm.  I put on a robe, and made my way towards the hotel's grandiose stairway. 

Seen from Brook Street (Photo by Vogue)

I was suddenly surrounded by a glamorous array of characters straight out of Tattler’s party pages. My memory may exaggerate a tad, but I remember all the ladies being clad in the most stunning night attire I had ever seen. 

No one seemed vaguely worried.  Despite the hour, we all greeted the announcement of a false alarm with good cheer and much camaraderie.  It turned out there had been a monthly practice drill the previous afternoon, and someone had forgotten to deprogram the alarm.

* * * * *

High tide flooding in St. Mark's Square (Guardian photo)

Gianni in a calmer moment

My first stay at the Gritti in Venice coincided with one of the city’s periodic floods, with canal waters not only flooding the piazza and surrounding streets, but gushing through the hotel’s sumptuous marble lobby as well.   

Coming down in the afternoon, I was met with knee-deep water on the ground floor and an agitated concierge, dressed in what looked like fishing boots over his morning suit:  “Back.  Back to your room,” he ordered.  “You’ll be better there.”  

Gianni, who was usually the essence of gentleness, had gone into his take-charge mode.  Barking out orders, he left no room for negotiations.  I really wanted to examine the flooding, but didn't dare disobey, and I returned docilely to my room.

It was a memorable environment for a first introduction to Venice's unique "aqua alta," the city's autumnal high tide phenomenon.
 

* * * * *

Raffles, summer of 2006

My most dramatic hotel incident occurred during a stay at the mythical Raffles, creator of the Singapore Sling, and once home-away-from-home to Rudyard Kipling and Somerset Maugham.  On my first evening, returning from a nearby movie house, I inexplicably took a nasty, headfirst fall onto the sidewalk.

Raffles doorman who escorted me into the emergency room

Seriously bruised and bloodied, glasses smashed and trousers torn, aided by passersby, I stumbled back to Raffles in a decidedly inelegant state.  Worse still, without my glasses, I was nearly blind.

Tom Toh in the presidential suite

 Tom Toh,  one of the junior directors whom I knew quite well, was working late.  He joined the concierge who had already rushed to my aid.  I was whisked in the hotel limousine to a nearby hospital, escorted into the emergency ward by chauffeur and the hotel doorman in full Raffles regalia (see above photo).  I have rarely, if ever, felt so important.

Over the next days I recuperated from what turned out to be only superficial injuries, supremely pampered by a staff attending to my every need.   If I had to fall, I couldn’t have done it in a better place.  I truly felt like the hotel’s most important guest.

Self-portrait, Singapore 2006

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

Next Friday:  "Margaret at Le Cirque"

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Claridge's was also featured in blog No. 16, "A Momentous Long-distance Telephone Call" ;  the Gritti in No. 17, "Celebrating the Holidays Away from Home", No. 10, "Danny the Night Concierge,"  and "Looking Back At Venice ... and Paul Newman"  (to access, click on above titles).

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]