26 - Babe Ruth's 60th Home Run

THE ABERDEEN HOTEL,  Aberdeen, North Carolina

Aberdeen street scene circa 1906 (hotel on right)

 
The hotel seed may have been planted somewhere in my genes.  Although none of my family ever voiced any particular interest in hotel life, my father and his sisters more or less grew up in one.  

My grandfather worked for the railway.  He was a conductor, and in those days in the early years of the last century, a conductor's job description included various administrative and office duties.  His sister and her husband owned the Aberdeen Hotel, and as Aberdeen had well under 800 souls at the time, one assumes the hotel facilities were, like most small town hostelries, on the modest side.

The white-frame hotel seen in the distance around 1900

Aberdeen is located approximately in the center of North Carolina in what is known, for obvious reasons, as the Sandhills.  Although on U.S. Highway 1 and serviced by the major North-South railway line, it was never more than a sleepy southern community.  Still, in its earliest years it boasted a plentiful and profitable supply of lumber, and was relatively rich in cotton and tobacco.

(I sometimes enjoy recounting to Parisian friends my cotton-picking days, but am no longer very sure just how long I survived in this arduous adolescent endeavor.  I don't think I lasted as much as a week. )

Uncle Ralph, Aberdeen hotel keeper

 When Great Uncle Ralph died in the flu epidemic of 1918, Aunt Zadie made an impassioned call to her brother, Ernest, who was my grandfather.  In short, she beseeched him to take a leave of absence from the railroad and move his family to Aberdeen to help her manage the hotel.  Which he did.

So my father settled in for several years with his four older sisters, living in an annex to the three-story hotel.   

He rarely spoke of those years, but once towards the end of his life he reminisced with great nostalgia about racing up and down the hotel corridors with his cousin little-Ralph  (who much later became big Ralph after fathering another little Ralph; just as his wife was big Polly after she became the mother of little Polly).  I wasn’t certain, but I think there were tears in Daddy's eyes, as though this were a most cherished memory.

 My father, Norfleet (left), with cousin Ralph (circa 1920).  
The hotel is seen to their right.    Ralph, the only member  
of the family actually born in the hotel, was later thought
to bear a remarkable resemblance to Clark Gable!

  



Norf with Buster Brown haircut 1923

  Daddy talked affectionately about walking with his dad in front of the hotel during the 1927 World Series.  It looked much like those saloon-style structures in the old Saturday westerns.  From the balcony, someone would fill in a chart on a large board as the baseball results came in by telegraph, and townspeople would wait for the scores below.



Granddaddy in later years

 As my grandfather used Morse code in his job on the railroad, he could “hear” the results at the same time as the telegraph operator.  To my father’s great pride, his dad announced to him and to nearby spectators, “Babe Ruth just hit his 60^th ... ”  well before the telegraph operator had time to transcribe the information. 

Ruth, called the Home Run King, was the most famous and highest paid baseball player of his generation.  He broke his own record for home runs in one season in the eighth inning of that historic final game of the 1927 season.

 

Babe Ruth at Yankee Stadium 1924 (Google photo)

The Aberdeen Hotel suffered a serious fire in 1941.  It was replaced by a brick structure, reopened as the Sandhill Hotel, then in 1942 --the year I was born-- it burned to the ground.  It was never rebuilt.  

The Aberdeen Hotel, the early years  --The hotel's clientele was principally comprised of commercial travelers, including a myriad of tobacco-related businessmen.  Those pod-like things leaning against the ground floor railings are undoubtedly bunches of tobacco leaves, awaiting shipment to the auction markets.

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

Next Friday:  "Stompin' at the Savoy ... the London years"

25 - The Importance of a Morning Suit

THE RITZ HOTEL, Paris

The Ritz' Espadon restaurant, summer terrace  (2010)

Years ago, long before I made my life with Brenda, I discovered the Ritz Hotel’s wonderful business luncheon.  The chef proposed everything that was the best of the day:  tasters, starter, main course, cheese, dessert, coffee and more sweets.  And all this for about 50 dollars (this is going back a few years). 

I became quite a regular client, often lunching solo.

Luigi, the host-maître d’hôtel, always seemed delighted to see me.  On this particular day some twenty years ago I vaguely sensed something changed.

Star chef Michel Roth in Ritz kitchen

 I was attuned to the fact that a new gentleman in morning suit was participating in the service.  I knew that each level of command in the French hotel hierarchy carried with it a precise category of clothing, and as I understood that the morning suit indicated top man, I was surprised to see that Luigi –surely the chief maitre d’hotel—was dressed in a simple, dark suit.

I was just making idle conversation and had no inkling of reopening a dramatic wound.  When I clumsily asked why he wasn’t wearing his morning suit, I thought he was going to burst into tears.

« You have noticed, of course, that I am no longer … », he seemed unable to finish, and injected a brave smile.  « Yes, the man you saw earlier is the chief, the new director. »

« But surely you are the head of the waiters, » I ventured, not knowing how to back up, having uncovered this indelicate can of worms.

Classic morning suit in 1898 watercolor

 « You see, during two years, there was no director, » he said, as though delighted in the complicity of a client who had finally noticed. «So I was like the acting head.  And now with the appointment of this man, I am no longer anything.  And to make sure that I understand perfectly what has happened to me, I have been instructed to return my morning suit. »

I sincerely commiserated and said how unjust this all seemed.

Towards the end of the meal, Luigi returned to say how much my comments had meant to him, how rare it was to hear when people were happy with the restaurant.  He said it was disheartening how many people wrote to say bad things.  Just that week someone had written about a lunch months earlier, criticizing the service as well as the food.    I asked how much weight this kind of condemnation held, and he said it could be enormous.

L'Espadon (watercolor by B.Redmond)

 When I said that my tendency was simply not to return to a hotel or restaurant when unhappy, but that I loved to write when the experience was outstanding, his eyes lit up.   He didn’t quite dare say anything immediately, but before I left, he managed to convey in the most discreet and delicate manner how much a complimentary letter sent to the right person could mean in his precarious situation.

I was more than happy to oblige.  Even though it didn’t get his morning suit back, my letter apparently did give a certain boost to Luigi’s professional self esteem and cemented an enduring complicity between us until his retirement several years ago.

L'Espadon Restaurant in 1955, unidentified gentleman in foreground  (Google photo)

SIDEBAR:  The last Night at the Ritz ... out with a bang!

Brenda and daughter Fiona in main lobby last July,  Ritz' last Sunday

It was a full house for the Ritz’ closing night. 

Boarding-up its ornate 18^th century doors last July, the granddaddy of Parisian luxury hotels began a major overhaul expected to last at least another two years.

The hotel was booked solid that last Monday night, and at prices way out of the realm of most of us ordinary mortals (reportedly 14,000-dollars for the Coco Chanel suite, named after one of the hotel's most prestigious residents).

Portion of bedroom in Coco Chanel Suite (Associated Press photo)

Star chef Michel Roth proposed a special 300-dollar menu for his “au revoir dinner” (foie gras, lobster and caviar, pigeon and cherries, ending with a peach Melba, the most famous creation of the hotel’s first chef Auguste Escoffier).  Wine and coffee were not included, but the restaurant still sold out. 

Well-heeled regulars came from around the globe for the final days.  Rarely have so many flags been raised at the same time to announce guests’ nationalities:  clients from Hong Kong, Japan, U.S.A., Singapore, Russia --not to mention France and the rest of Europe-- filled the iconic old palace one last time.

Despite promises to uphold tradition, some conservative regulars feared an overly modern transformation.  “We wanted to spend one more night here before it was too late,” an elderly German gentlemen said.  “You never know what it’s going to be like in two years time.”

“It’s so sad.  We’ve been coming here for over 20 years,” said a teary-eyed Hong Kong matron.  “Some of the plumbing may need changing, but we love it.  It’s historical, and it’s home.”  As reported by the French press agency, she embraced all staff she encountered in the lobby before heading out onto the Place Vendome.

The 200-million dollar facelift, in addition to all of the obvious heating-airconditioning-electricity refittings, will equip the Ritz with a state-of-the-art spa and spectacular new garden restaurant with a retractable glass ceiling.

Putting on the Ritz (Google)

 At its opening in 1898, the Ritz was the first in the world to have electricity in every room and en-suite bathrooms in most.   

 It inspired Irving Berlin's 1929 song “Putting On The Ritz” and the novella “The Diamond As Big As The Ritz” by Scott Fitzgerald, once a reguzlar guest with his wife Zelda.

Owned since 1979 by Egyptian tycoon Mohamed Al Fayed, it was here that Princess Diana had her last meal with Al Fayed’s son Dodi in 1997.

All bedrooms will be completely redecorated, but a Ritz spokeswoman said they would stay traditional in style, in the hotel’s trademark tones of pink and blue.  A public letter from the hotel's managing director promised to ensure that the “charm and personality of the Ritz is kept alive.”

“The Ritz will remain the Ritz,” pledged a hotel spokesman recently in its newsletter.  “Its DNA will remain intact.”

Vintage Ritz dinner, probably the 1930's (photo Ritz Hotel archives)

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

Next Friday:  "Babe Ruth's 60th Home Run, back to the Aberdeen Hotel"

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

The Ritz Hotel was also featured in sidebar for blog No. 18, "Cesar Ritz" Dec. 28, 2012  (to access, click on above title).

24 - Living it up on a budget

HOTEL BRISTOL, Paris

Sunday afternoon at the Bristol

Times are kind of hard, and some days we just have to face facts.    As I tell the grandchildren (which for some reason sends them into great gales of laughter):  “Money does not grow on trees!”

There haven’t been enough earnings lately finding their way into the coffers to justify much of a splurge.  Consequently, I figure I can count my blessings, savor  past memories (that’s what I’ve been doing these last months on “Hotel Musings”), and enjoy some of the cheaper deals out there.

Tea time

As high living goes, coffee at the Bristol must be the best value for money that Paris has to offer these days.  It is (relatively) cheap AND about as luxurious an afternoon’s outing as you could imagine.

  

Here’s the deal:  For just a tad over a ten-dollar bill (nine euros, to be exact), I invite you to enter the exquisite world of the rich and sometimes famous.

Fiona "at home" in lobby

Lorna on recent coffee tasting  expedition

The Bristol is arguably Paris' chic-est hotel address.  It reeks of understated elegance at its best, and is the home away from home of Robert de Niro, Angelina and Brad, Paul McCartney, to name but a few.  


A number of scenes from Woody Allen's popular "Midnight in Paris" were filmed here.

Originally a private mansion, it was already almost 200 years old when transformed into a luxury hotel in 1925.  It was named after the 4th Earl of Bristol, an Englishman  noted for his travels around Europe in the 18th century.

Brenda, a little touch-up

Former president Nicolas Sarkozy (as well as quite a few presidents before him) made the hotel's Epicure restaurant his canteen, stopping by regularly from his presidential offices across the street.

Nowadays, socialist president François Hollande would sooner be caught dead than publicly associated with such luxury, so there is little chance of running into him or any of his cabinet members.  It is said that key government members have been discouraged from patronizing the Bristol, and certainly are NEVER to be photographed there.

Coffee is served in the grand foyer-tea room-bar area, which is an extension of the main lobby.  If you wish to stay on budget, then it is mandatory to rigorously follow my instructions. 
 

The high-life version of a cup of coffee

Do not bother with the menu.  There is an abundance of tempting snacks, all sorts of mouth-watering desserts and an assortment of teas from the far corners of the globe.    Ignore all of the preceding. 

When the waiter arrives, just say:  “un café, s’il vous plait.”  [euuh  KAH-faye, SEEL voo play].  Naturally, you can say it in English, if you wish; but in that case, it is best to specify “an espresso coffee.”

In addition to a pretty heady environment of grand hotel aesthetics and celebrity comings and goings, here’s what you get:  one perfect Parisian espresso; one pretty little bottle of designer water; dainty old-fashioned, embroidered linen cocktail napkins; and --last but so not least--  an assortment of three, four or even six (depending on the mood of the day) delicious homemade chocolate candies.  All this to the accompaniment of discreet rippling chords from the resident harpist.

A tip is definitely not mandatory, as it is ostensibly always included in France.  However, you are not forbidden to leave the remaining one euro on the little silver dish.

Not bad as hotel lobbies go!

Follow-up on Fa-raon  

A recent coffee visit to the Bristol allowed us to check up on Fa-raon, the feline celebrity about whom I reported in a previous posting (see Nov. 23, 2012).  

Fa-raon, who has become an increasingly well known mascot at the Parisian palace,  appears to be doing better than ever.  He is seen here taking his afternoon snooze on the concièrge's desk.

Oblivious to his extraordinary good fortune and unimpressed by the hotel's roster of international movers and shakers, Fa-raon continues to take his lazy, pampered existence in his stride. 

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

Next Friday:  "The importance of a morning suit ... putting on the Ritz"

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

The Hotel Bristol and Fa-raon were also featured in:  blog No. 13, "Those silver-spooned children living the palace life" Nov. 23, 2012 (to access, click on above title).

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).

22 - Duplicate Ticketing, A Night in Rotterdam

 

HOTEL NEW YORK, Rotterdam 2012

The original turn-of-the-century stairwell at the Hotel New York

Brenda and I went to Rotterdam in the Fall, where we stayed at the Hotel New York.  It was the first time I had been there since 1997.

Actually, the trip was the result of yet another example of what one might call age-moments.   I prefer not to call them OLD age moments, though I am certainly not fooling myself, let alone anyone else. 

It is my memory, it keeps giving out on me.  A prime example would be a trip to the refrigerator only to forget what I’m looking for.  Or a click into google, then blank!   The only encouraging part of the problem is that these “irritations” seem to have been going on for at least a quarter of a century.

Be that as it may, in arranging a trip last summer to Amsterdam (a very pleasant stay at the newly converted Canal House and excellent reconnecting visit with early-Paris friends Martin and Marina Woods), I completely forgot that we had already bought the train tickets, and I managed to purchase a second, non-refundable set for the same trip on the same dates.  That was taking what had heretofore been fairly routine forgetfulness a giant step further!

Ultimately, we put a good face on the confusion.  Although the tickets were non-refundable, we were allowed to make ONE change.   We decided to use the duplicate tickets in October and to get off at Rotterdam, last stop before Amsterdam. The Woods joining us for another lunch added a finishing touch to the happy ending.

As hotels go, the New York has a most atypical history.  Before being converted into a hotel around 20 years ago, the old fashioned 1900 structure had served for nearly a century as the corporate headquarters of the Holland America Shipping Line.

In the early years, the building was also used to process and board transatlantic passengers .

Holland America's original S.S. Statendam 1918  (we took its descendant last year through the Panama Canal)

The Dutch line's name, itself, conjures up an unending stream of European immigrants who started there around the end of the 19^th Century, before embarking for the Promised Land and its streets paved with gold.  Many hundreds of thousands passed through what has now become the Hotel New York before heading for the U.S.A. and their new life.

When it was converted into a trendy hotel in the 1990's, the new owners kept most of the dynamics intact.  As a result, several of the old board rooms have been transformed  into unique oversized bedrooms.  

Room 207 with panaromic view of the river

 The hotel still exudes a decidedly nautical atmosphere in many, subtle ways.  Deck chairs, wooden chaises longues and old cabin trunks, which furnish the common areas, give the feeling of excitement of embarking on a sea voyage.  Photos and photographic murals everywhere reflect past glories of the Dutch line and its transatlantic crossings.

On my first visit 15 years ago, the hotel stood almost alone on its tip of the island off mainland Rotterdam.  Today it is engulfed and dwarfed by surrounding skyscrapers that give it an almost surreal effect. 

The New York seen from the hotel's motor launch

Brenda at Het Park, Rotterdam

 It is not a service-oriented hotel, but is an especially friendly one, boasting excellent value for money with competitive prices and some spectacular rooms with stunning views.  There is something peculiarly and satisfyingly Dutch about its blend of style and comfort with a welcome lack of chi-chi.   

  Now if I could just remember where I put those tickets back to Paris! 

With Brenda and Marina (right) in a somewhat elongated room 207 (photo Martin Woods)

-o- 

SIDEBAR --CARGO CRUISING FROM ROTTERDAM

The Sloman Commander off the Norwegian coast

     My first encounter with the Hotel New York was just over 15 years ago, while waiting to board a cargo ship for Norwegian fjords country.    It was an experiment in freighter travel with an eye towards longer and more ambitious voyages, and unfortunately it didn’t quite work out. 

Captain of the Sloman

The trip was a disappointment, mainly because of its boredom quotient.  Arriving  three days late for its Rotterdam departure (you just have to wait on your own dime until it gets there), the old freighter sped through its announced route at breakneck pace, eliminating all stops other than those mandatory for discharging its cargo.  

Consequently, on the few ports of call during the six-day journey to Norway and back, we were so rushed that it was generally impossible to leave the ship.  

a very untalented ship's cook

Cabins let to passengers on cargos are inevitably those normally assigned to senior officers, so they tend to be spacious and comfortable.  Mine was no exception. It boasted two large portholes, which would have afforded me an enviable view from bed.  As luck had it, they were both totally blocked by dark wooden crates which were only discharged the last afternoon of the trip.

I also have a less than happy memory of what I can describe with no risk of exaggeration as prison-quality food (though after several days of declining much of it, I was only too glad to eat anything available as the days wore on).

Although registered in St Johns for tax reasons, the Sloman Commander was German owned.  Its crew, however, were all Russian, with only the captain speaking a smattering of English.  Otherwise, communication was nil!  

I do nevertheless look back with a certain nostalgia, reviewing the photos that I took of each of the crew members (I never learned any of their names).  Seeing these “portraits” today, you get the feeling of one big happy, communicative family. 

  

 

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

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]