13 - Those silver-spooned children living the palace life

The little girl in red, Gritti Palace 1991

      Watching silver-spooned children living the supreme grand hotel experience somehow underscores the simplicity of my own childhood, growing up in Aberdeen.

I never cease to be amazed when I see young children at grand hotels.  It’s a kind of life I couldn’t have imagined as a little boy, although I would have loved it.  That being said, had I grown up in such a pampered environment, then my special hotels today certainly wouldn’t seem nearly so special.

It was Christmas of 1991 at the Gritti Palace in Venice when I saw the beautiful little girl in the red dress.  Of that visit, it is that elegant, sophisticated child who sticks in my mind.  She’d be almost middle-aged today; I wonder what kind of life she leads.

* * * * * * * *

On our last stay at Claridges in London, just before leaving for the train station, we had checked out and were waiting in the lobby.  Brenda was getting more and more anxious to slip into the restroom, but every time she tried, there seemed to be a surprisingly young crowd blocking the door.

Claridge's Hotel 2010

We suddenly realized the entire teatime area was filled with all of these tiny pre-school children.  Soon we were surrounded by dozens of elegantly attired tots with their even more elegantly attired mommies coming into the lobby from all directions.

It turned out Claridge’s was host to the FIRST birthday of one of the little tykes and about sixty of her closest and dearest friends.  It made for a colorful and stimulating Sunday afternoon ambiance.  Pity the camera was all packed away!

* * * * * * *

Here are a few photos of the younger generation spotted at some special addresses.

Emma and Nathan are Brenda’s grandchildren and mine by adoption.  They definitely were not born with a silver spoon, nor do they have one now.  However, at eight years old, one gets accustomed to things fast.  Here they are enjoying ice cream last year in the Paris Ritz gardens.

 Christmas vacation 2011, young hotel residents ice skating in the newly-created rink at the very luxurious Plaza Athenée in Paris. 

Checkout time for this Japanese
family at the Paris Ritz

Unidentified cutups, Hotel New York, Rotterdam

Little girl enraptured with cat in the gardens of the Hotel Bristol in Paris.  I had assumed it was hers, but in fact "Fa-Raon" belongs to the luxury palace and is something of a hotel mascot (see sidebar: Grand Hotel Cats)

 Youngster undoubtedly unimpressed by the cushioned hotel atmosphere as he enters the Plaza Athenée on his little scooter!

Eloise and vintage photo of the Plaza (photo google)

Last but not least, do not forget hoteldom's most famous youngster, Eloise, whose adventures at the New York Plaza have been chronicled in five best-selling children's books.  Written by the late Kay Thompson, Eloise is a six year-old living in a room on the "tippy-top floor" of the Plaza with her nanny, her pug dog Weenie, and her turtle Skipperdee.  Thompson's goddaughter, Liza Minnelli, has frequently been cited as the original model for the mischevious title character.

* * * * *

An awkward pre-teen Gloria
with her mother (photo Google)

P.S. Gloria Vanderbilt, once the richest little girl in America, was a good example of too many grand hotels too soon.  Almost permanently living in hotel palaces between Paris or Biarritz and New York from infancy, she acquired an aversion to them by the time she entered adolescence.  

In her original autobiography, "Once Upon A Time," G.V. described her dread of having to stay at the Sherry Netherland Hotel when her mother was in New York.  Further, her grandmother, who lived around the corner at the more modest Hotel 14, always insisted they have Sunday lunch at the Sherry en famille.

When at around 14 she brought her first, older boyfriend home to meet the family, she tells of being seized with panic at the idea Grandmother Morgan was going to spill the beans and blurt out that  they went every week to the "old boring Sherry Netherland"!

SIDEBAR:  GRAND HOTEL CATS

Fa-raon, King of the Bristol

     Fa-raon (the French word for Pharaoh), the Bristol’s feline guest, is of a long line of grand hotel pets.  The three-year old white Burmese has taken on celebrity status since the Bristol finished massive renovations two years ago.

The chic, Parisian establishment, situated almost in front of the presidential palace, has elevated the chubby Fa-raon to stardom, using him shamelessly to attract press attention.  He has frequently appeared in newspaper features, and is purported to be an important part in attracting return business.

Fa-raon spends much of his time resting on the concierge’s desk or curled up on one of the sumptuous Louis XVI-syle sofas in the main lobby.  He seems to take all the attention in his stride, and is said to have a preference for hotel residents under the age of twelve.

Fa-raon with young admirer in the Bristol gardens

* * * ** *

The Parisian palace’s publicity campaign was possibly inspired by the New York City Algonquin Hotel’s Matilda, who has garnered more than her share of television and newspaper coverage over the last half century.

Garbo & Barrymore on set of Grand Hotel 1932 

This year marks the 80^th anniversary of cats roaming the tony NYC hotel’s lobby.  In 1932, then-owner Frank Case welcomed a stray looking for food and shelter, and a tradition was born.

Hotel lore says actor John Barrymore (one of the original members of the Algonquin’s literary “round table”) insisted the tomcat  needed a theatrical name, and he proposed Hamlet.

The name perservered, but some decades later new management chose Matilda for the hotel’s first female kitty.  The current Matilda, the tenth, is a Ragdoll who has won cat-of-the-year at the prestigious Westchester, N.Y. Cat Show.

Matilda (photo Librado Romero)

It is hardly a surprise that she has her own page on Facebook, with well over 5000 “likes.”  

And she has a secretary to answer emails, because as executive assistant Alice de Almeida, who doubles as P.A. for Matilda, explains, “Everyone knows cats don’t have thumbs, and you need a thumb to send emails!”

For a more in-depth video interview with Matilda from the Cat Channel, click below:

KASPAR, THE SAVOY'S BLACK CAT

Kaspar

      The Savoy Hotel's most famous resident checked in over 85 years ago, and he never left! 

Kaspar the cat, an impressive art-deco feline wood sculpture, was originally created to circumvent any superstitious problems involving dinner parties at the London hotel’s Savoy Grill.  Hotel legend has it that any dinner table with thirteen guests is headed for no good as the first to rise from the table is destined to meet with a tragic end.  Kaspar's role is simple:  he serves, when needed, as an official fourteenth guest.

Artist Basil Ionides was commissioned in 1926 to design and carve the three-foot-high black cat, which he produced from a single piece of London plane.  Kaspar has since resided in the entrance hall, but whenever a party of thirteen requires an extra guest he is brought out to sit at table. He has a napkin tied around his neck and is served every course, just like any other guest.

 

Winston Churchill became particularly fond of Kaspar, and for many years insisted the cat be present at every meeting of The Other Club, a political dining group he founded between the two wars.

A successful 2008 children’s book has now ensured Kaspar's continuing celebrity status for new generations.  “Kaspar: Prince of Cats” was written by “War Horse” author Michael Morpurgo, a former Savoy writer-in-residence.

 -o-

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

Next Friday:  "Around Africa with Brenda"

 [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited] 

12 - The Beginning and the End of Duncan

GRAND ALBERGO TIMEO  --Taormina, Sicily

Duncan at the Timeo 1980

             Duncan was conceived at the Timeo Hotel.  At least that is the story he told. 

Americans of  means, his parents came to Europe on their honeymoon a year or so before the outbreak of the First World War.  They spent a season  in Taormina and established a lifelong affection with the Timeo.

The Timeo garden terrace today (photo Orient Express)

 Duncan in 1980 had more than continued the tradition.  A hypochondriac and a perpetual depressive, he had pretty much given up on life and had been living in a room at the Timeo for several years when I met him.

An indiscreet hotel manager confided that Duncan was “not too keen for the ladies” and that his friend had left him several years previous, which had precipitated the permanent move into the Timeo.

He had once been a professional photographer, and had first come to Taormina in the late forties to photograph the majestic mountain and seascapes.

von Gloeden (google)

Taormina historically had an attraction for the gay community.  Before the turn of the 20^th century, the renowned German photographer Wilhem von Gloeden established a somewhat sulphurous reputation in Taormina, photographing local shepherd boys in the nude, often imitating the poses of Greek and Roman statues. 

Early Capote (google)

Oscar Wilde was one of the first British dandies to visit the hilltop town.     Shortly after the end of the Second World War, Truman Capote led a contingent of jet-setting artists there.  He spent over a year, which he wrote about in his essay “Fontana Vecchia.”   

Duncan first arrived at the Timeo at about this time.

All of the Anglo Saxons and most of the Italians staying at the hotel knew him.  He enjoyed telling guests how unhappy he was and how ineffectual was the lithium he took every morning.  Despite his seemingly permanent state of depression, he never left his room without jacket and tie.

  Taormina was no longer exclusively reserved for the happy few.  “Look at those dreadful tour groups”, he said one day, taking his daily stroll down the Corso.  “They all give me the creeps.”  The world was changing, and neither Duncan nor the Timeo wished to follow suit.

“When I wake up, I think ‘Oh, God, no, not another day, I cannot stand another day on this earth !”

The hotel’s concierge sent me a postcard a few months after my last trip there, reporting that the “grim reaper” had finally paid Duncan a visit. 

Corso Umberto, Main Street Taormina (photo Liv-Life)

-o-

A Few Randon Timeo Faces

Anne

 Of all the many photos I seem to remember taking during my stays at the Timeo, only a few remain.  

Claudia

Urzio

Mario

A few years ago, I had the bright idea of getting rid of several boxes of old memorabilia, including clippings and notebooks ... and many photos.   At that time I hadn't looked at them in at least two decades, and I couldn't find a convincing reason to keep them. 

 I was a little obsessed with the memory of my mother on her deathbed, sifting through boxes of family photos, sorting things for different family members and friends to be dispatched after her death.  I couldn’t understand why she never seemed to finish, until I realized that those boxes of memorabilia were somehow the only thing keeping her alive. 

  Although there was nothing exactly negative about this, I did not wish to imagine myself in similar circumstances.  I had enough of an attachment for the memories that those miscellaneous papers documented that I somehow didn't like the idea of them being thrown away by someone else when I would no longer be around or in charge. 

So I chucked out a good part of my old souvenirs and held back a handful of photos for no specific reason.   They are pretty much all that remain of my Timeo-people memories.   Just a few little bits and pieces:  

Maria

 Maria was an English spinster, whose traveling companion (whom we never actually saw) was confined to her room with a sudden, serious illness.  She joined us for Christmas dinner, and I am thoroughly ashamed to say we were most unhappy when she continued to join us in the days that followed.

Pier Luigi

Pier Luigi and Suzanne

     Pier Luigi met his French friend Suzanne at the Timeo every year for a holiday vacation.  He was, according to Suzanne, recovering from a serious  nervous breakdown, though he always seemed in total control.

    





The Augers were an Anglo-American couple, regular returning guests at the Timeo.  Hugh, a rather bombastic retired army major,  was to our eyes --to Anne's and mine-- foolishly pompous.  Betty, despite a softer, warmer facade, bore a sometimes uncanny resemblance in her manner of being and flat American accent to Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor. 

    

The Augers

There was undoubtedly a story somewhere behind each of these faces.  However, the above jottings represent  the extent of my memories.  So the Timeo vignettes end today with Duncan.

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

Next Friday:  Silver Spooned Children ...

 [Photos are mine unless otherwise credited]

11 - INTERMEZZO, Between Hotels in the 1970s

Money, money, money .... but not much for me!

      People have sometimes been sceptical of my claim to modest means, and it is certain that I have, on occasion, chosen some rather costly places to spend the night.    Many would call it living above one’s means, and that may be true.  I think of it more as living frugally when necessary in order to live it up when the right opportunity presents itself.

Among my many vices as a young man was a rather common illness that manifested itself basically in a total inability to handle money.  Until I was thirty, my finances were just about always in a catastrophic state. 

French banks were terrible for my malady, because for whatever peculiar reason, they tended to allow great overdrafts without getting too concerned.  In my case, just as I was entering my fourth decade, my overdraft exceeded my salary.  That meant in essence that I was already stone broke the day my salary was deposited.  It went on for a long time, and as I had never really known any other way of dealing with money, I never expected to get myself out of this permanent financial rut.

But I did.  In fact, I had what might be the equivalent of a born-again experience.  Someone gave me some life-changing advice, and the extraordinary thing was that I listened.  I can’t remember for sure, but it must have been my bank manager, in which case I owe him an immense debt of gratitude

First, I was told to write down meticulously everything I spent during the month, not to leave a single penny unaccounted for.  I did this, and was astounded to suddenly realize how much money I was spending on magazines that I wasn’t reading, taxis far slower than public transport, not to mention cigarettes and various and sundry extravagances, none of which were giving me the slightest pleasure. 

Then came the clinker, my spiritual awakening:  if I could ever figure out a way to pay off my debts, I could conceivably count on the money I was squandering on rubbish to spend in the future on all sorts of wonderful things that I had heretofore been unable to afford.

I am simplifying a little, but once I reimbursed --little by little-- my wonderfully patient bank manager, I started thinking about what would really give me pleasure, and  I have never looked back, and have never actually been completely broke again.

It didn’t hurt that this coincided with a reasonably good office job at UNESCO.  By now I had stopped drinking, and that certainly didn’t hurt financially either.  


I remember when I quit smoking in 1978 (during my first trip to Taormina), I started a piggy bank in which I religiously deposited my “cigarette money” every day, with the enthusiastic resolution to spend it at some future point on something much more pleasurable.

When I started the art business in 1979 as a possibly money-making hobby to offset a less than stimulating clerical job, I made myself a promise that if ever there were any profits, I would only use them for the kind of luxuries I could otherwise not afford.  And that is what I’ve always done.  These once-unaffordable pleasures more often than not turned into hotels and restaurants.

So if you’d like to buy a charming, inexpensive watercolour from another era, go straight to "My Paris Fine Art Gallery," and know that the proceeds will most likely find their way into the coffers of some grand hotel.  Or perhaps another lunch at the Ritz when it ever reopens.    

Mid-Seventies me (photo Martin Woods)

-o-

      

INTERLUDE, Hotel restaurants in the 1980’s  

Busy Sunday lunchtime at the Hotel Negresco's Chantecler Restaurant, Nice

      I gravitated to hotel restaurants when I was alone, because they were obviously the places most accommodating and accustomed to single diners.  As I had a clear taste for both fine food and travel, and as I have lived much of my life with no immediate family, I decided early on that there was no reason to deprive myself of some of the things that gave me the most pleasure, just because I didn’t always have someone to share them with.

   Even so, it was not always so easy to enter some of those palatial, formal dining rooms all by myself.  In the beginning there were times when I felt all eyes upon me, and sometimes they really were.

Windsor

  In the same way that some actors are said to pretend the audience is naked in an effort to overcome stage fright, I invented a game with myself, whereby in the privacy of my mind, I became a kind of latter day Duke of Windsor (I would pretend the Duchess had been delayed).    For most people it wouldn’t have been necessary, but I lacked the self confidence for the single lifestyle I sometimes chose for myself, and my make-believe games seemed to work.

(I now wonder what games the real Windsor played to "be" the Duke of Windsor!)

Poster from the novel's film version

Some years ago I came across a particularly pertinent observation in the very entertaining French novel by Maurice Drouon, “Les Grandes Familles.”  It was something to the effect that no one --no matter how old or how successful-- ever feels totally within himself that he has become an adult.

Until I read that (and I was probably reaching the mid-century mark at the time), I had somehow thought that most people DID feel the confidence of their age, and that I was one of the odd ones who continued to feel the same insecurity of their childhood. 

I suddenly understood and accepted that I was not alone, that no one was really immune to multiple insecurities.  It was when I understood this that I no longer needed the games.

End of evening at the Hotel Shangri-la's l'Abeille restaurant, Paris

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

Next Friday:  One last trip to the Timeo ... with Duncan

10 - Danny, the Night Porter ...

THE GRITTI PALACE, Venice circa 1990 
 
 

Anonymous oil of the Grand Canal (collection Marion Vu Dinh)

   

   On one of my early stays at the Gritti, I had a wonderful package which included full breakfast and lots of perks –flowers and wine and cheese and fruit.  It was the week before Christmas and I was one of their rare clients.  Everywhere I turned the staff amazingly called me by name.  I honestly wondered if they didn’t have cue cards hidden behind their work stations.

The Gritti, Christmas 1992

The first night I enthusiasticly set out with my special Gritti pass for the grand old municipal casino.  When I tried to withdraw $100 from a nearby money machine  I watched in horror as a message flashed in Italian informing me that my card had been SWALLOWED !

Returning to the hotel, broke and dejected, I hinted to the management side about an advance to be added onto my bill.  This was met with a politely chilly fin de non-recevoir.

Concierge's corner

My first room at the Gritti

Now, you understand the executive branch of luxury hotels is there to manage the accounts, and they don’t always have too much contact with the guests.  The concierge staff, on the other hand, is there primarily to serve, to make everyone happy, and in the process make as much money as they can.

The night concierge was a roly-poly, ever-smiling career man who had truly found his calling.  He looked much like a younger Danny de Vito and plied his trade with enthusiasm and joy.

The real Devito (google photo)

Observing the unsuccesful encounter with the director and sensing my drama, he discreetly asked how he might help.  “You probably can’t,” I said, “unless you have the keys to the bank.”

He understood everything without my needing to explain further.  “How much do you need?”  he asked with a twinkle.  “One hundred?  Two hundred?”  

Apparently the concierge staff keeps its own cash box for just such “investments.”  I can no longer remember the sum, but it was a reasonable godsend, and he seemed thrilled to pack me off to the casino.

The Venice Casino, housed in the elegant 15th century Palazzo Vendramin

I only played black jack at the time (I later gave up all gambling when I woke up to the realization that I was much too poor to lose).  On this particular evening I managed miraculously to play for a couple of hours before leaving with precisely the same amount with which I had arrived.

I had been churning over in my mind just what sum would be an appropriate tip.  The problem was temporarily resolved, as on my return I had no choice but to report that I had neither won nor lost, and could only return the loan which I did poste-haste.

Having recovered my bank card the next morning, I planned to leave a gift, but Danny was nowhere to be seen, and I am none too proud to admit that I didn’t look too diligently for him.

The following year, returning from the casino well after midnight, I found Danny at his post.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.  It was one of the rare times I had actually won a nice sum, and I was quite exhilarated.  “And do you remember loaning me the money last year?” 

“Indeed I do,” replied Danny, breaking into a big smile.

“Tonight I won 400 dollars,” I said, “so here is half for you.”

Gianni

I later wondered if  I had perhaps been a bit excessive. 

On my next visit to the Gritti, however, I had reason to be really satisfied with my gesture.   When I asked Gianni, the head concierge, why I had not seen “Danny,”  he explained that the hotel was in mourning, because the much loved night porter had recently been discovered dead at his post, having succumbed to a heart attack in the early hours of the morning.  He was only 48.  

      

A fading photo album of my first Venetian memories

 Here are a few photographs from my first trip to Venice in the mid-seventies.  They were taken in November, and the grain and fading colors now tend to enhance the drama of my first impressions of this supremely grand canal city.

I have known Venice under every season (except the height of summer, which is surely to be avoided if possible).  These photos reflect my favorite season, Winter.  It can be bitterly cold, but unlike Paris, there is often a vibrant winter sun.

Whatever the light or whatever the temperature, Venice remains a city of great mystery and elegance.

 




 





A city of canals is also a city of bridges....

Pigeons on the Piazza San Marco

My first Venice hotel was a nondescript walkup without lobby, with 

 view on the back of an old church.  Doesn't sound like much on paper!

READER COMMENT –Letter from Joel Fletcher  

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

      Another lovely posting, Frank, that takes me back to places I have been.

     I never stayed at the Gritti, never even peeked into the lobby. Funny that I cannot even remember which hotel we stayed in when I took my parents there in 1963.

     My happiest memory of Venice is from a dozen years later when I was having lunch in the American Bar with a dear old friend, Guelfo Frulla, the recently retired head of Stanford in Italy, and we ran into an American Professor Guelfo had known at Yale.

     I don't recall his name, but he was well past middle age and had the blackest teeth I had ever seen on a human. He was writing a book (that he never finished) to be called Venice as a Mirror about American artists who lived in Venice. He was totally obsessed by gondoliers and after lunch he introduced us to one who took us on an hour-long gondola ride through the back canals of Venice. It was like being in a completely different city.

     On that same visit, I went to Peggy Guggenheim's palazzo, which had only recently been opened to the public, and as I was buying a catalogue from a dowdy woman dressed like a maid, I realized that it was Peggy herself.   

     While she was making change, she put down a pad on which she had been writing and I glanced down to see a scribbled recipe for Hungarian goulash.  Years after that, I was reading  an article in the New Orleans Art Quarterly by one of her former curators that described a dinner party Peggy had given for the Hungarian ambassador at which she had served a goulash that made everyone ill!

 

Peggy, looking anything but like a maid  (D.Seymour photo)

-o-

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

Next Friday:  "Intermezzo ... between hotels in the 1970's"

 [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]