| Forgetting Eloise |
| The Travel Snob Invades the Plaza, Determined to Put The Hotel Tyke in Her Place |
Eloise is dumber than hair.
Years of growing up in The Plaza, coloring on its walls, jumping on
its furniture and ratting out housekeepers to the INS, and this is what
you have to show for it? An entourage of house pets and some lame
collection of children’s books without any castles, villains or effeminate
wizards?
Bitch, please. It’s time to step aside and leave the creative thinking
to professionals. Like me, who can rattle off innumerous ways to whore
out your legacy, from lead-coated toys made by the Chinese to a line of
suggestive dolls like those Bratz, who are now owned by Mattel and thus
days away from an Easy Bake oven and emotionally abusive relationship
with Ken. I smell an opening!
I’d also have no problem scheming up some fanciful ownership
stake to The Plaza, then wait for the deed to transfer before tossing you
out onto the streets, where with any hope you’ll be plowed down by a
horse carriage on Central Park South and end any future claim to the
property.
Hmm … that’s a little extreme, even for me. Why so angry, Travel
Snob?
I’ll tell you: As Eloise trolled around The Plaza dreaming up those
whimsical shenanigans that endeared her to all (except me and my
hermanas in housekeeping), I sat having to hear about them in a tiny
townhouse apartment in Coral Springs, Fla., which could have used
twice daily turndown service and not mom screaming at me to clean the
kitchen. Is it any wonder then why a 10-year-old boy with a suspect
mental state and dishpan hands would want to hear about a fictional
cartoon heiress living in a five star hotel?
Does it seem fair that she gets tea in the fabulous Palm Court while
I get make-it-yourself Crystal Light out of a cardboard canister? Or that
she eats dinner in the fabled Oak Room and I get Lean Cuisine out of a
freezer?
And so after being invited to experience the hotel after its $400
million renovation, I rightfully moved in, determined to banish the tyke
into the gutter, or at least toss her down the laundry chute, where
Concepcion can catch and club her with a recently purchased Swiffer.
Without admitting to any wrongdoing, let’s just say I did get my chance to
indulge in a weekend at The Plaza, during which I may have unwittingly
become an accomplice after the fact. Oh, whatever, it’s not like anyone
would miss her or anything. And besides, I had far more important things
to do, like pretend to take copious notes in front of the hotel’s publicist
on how it’s become a destination befitting someone like The Travel
Snob, criminal indictment notwithstanding.
Truth be told, The Plaza of yore was dowdy – something we will
attribute to those tacky Trumps, who couldn’t manage a youth hostile
without the inevitable bankruptcy filing and brass fixtures. I’m of the
persuasion that the “greatness” that enshrouds the Donald is but a
figment of his warped imagination, and that the industrial glue that holds
that bird’s nest of a head together has made him downright loopy. As
history knows, the bloated huckster was forced to unload The Plaza
during his early 90s fire sale but the damage was already done. It would
take years, new managers (the always classy Fairmont Hotels and
Resorts) and a multi-million dollar restoration to bring the hotel back to
its former glory.
And has it ever!
Gone is the cheap furniture with nicks and scratches (thanks
Eloise!), TV sets that don’t work, display cases hawking cheesy Trump
family-crested souvenirs, and bedding better suited for the last
Depression. In its place is a fabulous, opulent hotel brimming with
technological wonders, like the portable computer panel that controls
everything from room temperature to TV channels, and lets you order
room service. Guest rooms are all outfitted with stylish Louis XV-style
décor and custom made furnishings, as well as bathrooms that feature
inlaid earth stone mosaic tiles, 24-karat gold-plated Sherle Wagner sinks
and fixtures, and Mascioni bath towels and linens made exclusively for
the Plaza.
The hotel also offers white-glove butler service on every floor, and I
confess to calling a few (okay, 10) times for every conceivable whim, like
more Diet Coke and to ponder the meaning of life.
As richly designed as the guestrooms are the public spaces are
equally as noteworthy, including the 1,800 sq. ft. stained glass ceiling in
the Palm Court, uncovered for the first time in 60 years, and a
champagne bar in the lobby featuring five Baccarat chandeliers. I
confess to using those areas to playfully (okay, drunkenly) haunt the
property with my good friend Basseta, who joined me in a game of boo
and go seek after a long dinner in the fabled Plaza Oak Room. It’s a
good thing no one summoned security or that saucy real-life ghost
whisperer -- all they would have found hiding the corners were two giddy
guests whose only disappearing act involved a bottle of wine.
Within one weekend at The Plaza I’d exhausted its Jameson supply,
stress-tested the coiling of its mattress with an ill-advised re-enactment
from “Home Alone 2”, and willingly subjected myself to a creepy
sounding “Vinothérapie” experience in the Plaza’s Caudalíe spa, whose
treatments harness “the untapped, restorative power of grapes and
grapevine polyphenols,” whatever that means. The only thing I took
away from the experience was the ego boost from my “vinotherapist”
who confirmed after years of suspicion I had the cleanest skin she’d ever
seen, a fact I owe not to genetics (curses, all of you!!!) but Kiehls. Now
hopefully they’ll send me a box of their refreshing, all natural Pineapple
Papaya Facial Scrub for shamelessly plugging them in this book.
But since I cannot afford to live in the Plaza like Eloise, who I bet is
getting her nails painted pink in one of the building’s 131 private
residences as I type this, I’m left with only the memories (and the sewing
kit) that will stay with me for at least the next week or so, or until a follow-
up visit when I will rightfully send the brat off to one of those tragic Irish
orphanages you see profiled on 60 Minutes or, worse: the home of her
real life inspiration Liza Minnelli.
Now that’s punishment!
But maybe too much so. When you’re modeled after a pill-popping,
bottle-throwing, yo-yo dieting, gay-husband marrying train wreck like
Liza, life cannot be that glamorous, no matter where you live, although
David Gest did wonders for the Fifth Ave pied-à-terre.
And so I left The Plaza and my bizarre fixation on Eloise and jetted
to my next destination: The Ritz-Carlton, Georgetown, creatively housed
in an old incinerator in Washington, DC which now exists as a super
trendy 80 room boutique hotel. As much as my enemies would like to
see me doused in flames, and they’ll get that chance, it won’t be here
because The Ritz-Carlton, Georgetown is easily the most cosmopolitan
of all DC’s hotels, and not the vision of burning flesh I seem to have
inspired in so many. Since it opened in 2003 the property has become a
virtual playground for the city’s hottest movers and shakers, as well as
visiting celebs like Ben Affleck. The mood is very alpha male, with a fire
motif running throughout the property, including the Degrees bar and
lounge and its signature restaurant, Fahrenheit.
It was there I continued the gluttony that has become The Travel
Snob with an 80 minute massage that could have relaxed even Timothy
Geithner, who looks so lost and forlorn at times I just want to tweak his
cheeks and take him to Dylan’s Candy Store. There, he can see that
things aren’t so dire, and if those horrible parents can still afford to buy
their spoiled children giant $300 stuffed Twizzler dolls then maybe the
world isn’t about to end.
The Ritz-Carlton, Georgetown is also home to my favorite bar
Degrees, where I spent way too much time enjoying Irish highballs and
coming up with random marketing gimmicks for the hotel, whose 90
percent occupancy rates and Five Diamond rankings fool no one. It
could definitely use a little of the je ne sais quoi I so naturally expel, and
after a run of cocktails that would have knocked Colin Farrel on his arse,
I was more than happy to share my ideas, which were scribbled furiously
on a napkin but still legible. The winner was a multi-platform branding
campaign that uses a well-known personality from the history books as
the Ritz-Carlton, Georgetown’s mascot: Satan, or as I like to call him,
Dad.
I personally think it’s brilliant. Fire theme, sinfully-delicious food and
the deal you’d make in a nanosecond for one more night spent sleeping
on its linens.
That’s a contract I would agree to, willingly. Except I’d sign it Eloise.
See how she likes those trappings.
Years of growing up in The Plaza, coloring on its walls, jumping on
its furniture and ratting out housekeepers to the INS, and this is what
you have to show for it? An entourage of house pets and some lame
collection of children’s books without any castles, villains or effeminate
wizards?
Bitch, please. It’s time to step aside and leave the creative thinking
to professionals. Like me, who can rattle off innumerous ways to whore
out your legacy, from lead-coated toys made by the Chinese to a line of
suggestive dolls like those Bratz, who are now owned by Mattel and thus
days away from an Easy Bake oven and emotionally abusive relationship
with Ken. I smell an opening!
I’d also have no problem scheming up some fanciful ownership
stake to The Plaza, then wait for the deed to transfer before tossing you
out onto the streets, where with any hope you’ll be plowed down by a
horse carriage on Central Park South and end any future claim to the
property.
Hmm … that’s a little extreme, even for me. Why so angry, Travel
Snob?
I’ll tell you: As Eloise trolled around The Plaza dreaming up those
whimsical shenanigans that endeared her to all (except me and my
hermanas in housekeeping), I sat having to hear about them in a tiny
townhouse apartment in Coral Springs, Fla., which could have used
twice daily turndown service and not mom screaming at me to clean the
kitchen. Is it any wonder then why a 10-year-old boy with a suspect
mental state and dishpan hands would want to hear about a fictional
cartoon heiress living in a five star hotel?
Does it seem fair that she gets tea in the fabulous Palm Court while
I get make-it-yourself Crystal Light out of a cardboard canister? Or that
she eats dinner in the fabled Oak Room and I get Lean Cuisine out of a
freezer?
And so after being invited to experience the hotel after its $400
million renovation, I rightfully moved in, determined to banish the tyke
into the gutter, or at least toss her down the laundry chute, where
Concepcion can catch and club her with a recently purchased Swiffer.
Without admitting to any wrongdoing, let’s just say I did get my chance to
indulge in a weekend at The Plaza, during which I may have unwittingly
become an accomplice after the fact. Oh, whatever, it’s not like anyone
would miss her or anything. And besides, I had far more important things
to do, like pretend to take copious notes in front of the hotel’s publicist
on how it’s become a destination befitting someone like The Travel
Snob, criminal indictment notwithstanding.
Truth be told, The Plaza of yore was dowdy – something we will
attribute to those tacky Trumps, who couldn’t manage a youth hostile
without the inevitable bankruptcy filing and brass fixtures. I’m of the
persuasion that the “greatness” that enshrouds the Donald is but a
figment of his warped imagination, and that the industrial glue that holds
that bird’s nest of a head together has made him downright loopy. As
history knows, the bloated huckster was forced to unload The Plaza
during his early 90s fire sale but the damage was already done. It would
take years, new managers (the always classy Fairmont Hotels and
Resorts) and a multi-million dollar restoration to bring the hotel back to
its former glory.
And has it ever!
Gone is the cheap furniture with nicks and scratches (thanks
Eloise!), TV sets that don’t work, display cases hawking cheesy Trump
family-crested souvenirs, and bedding better suited for the last
Depression. In its place is a fabulous, opulent hotel brimming with
technological wonders, like the portable computer panel that controls
everything from room temperature to TV channels, and lets you order
room service. Guest rooms are all outfitted with stylish Louis XV-style
décor and custom made furnishings, as well as bathrooms that feature
inlaid earth stone mosaic tiles, 24-karat gold-plated Sherle Wagner sinks
and fixtures, and Mascioni bath towels and linens made exclusively for
the Plaza.
The hotel also offers white-glove butler service on every floor, and I
confess to calling a few (okay, 10) times for every conceivable whim, like
more Diet Coke and to ponder the meaning of life.
As richly designed as the guestrooms are the public spaces are
equally as noteworthy, including the 1,800 sq. ft. stained glass ceiling in
the Palm Court, uncovered for the first time in 60 years, and a
champagne bar in the lobby featuring five Baccarat chandeliers. I
confess to using those areas to playfully (okay, drunkenly) haunt the
property with my good friend Basseta, who joined me in a game of boo
and go seek after a long dinner in the fabled Plaza Oak Room. It’s a
good thing no one summoned security or that saucy real-life ghost
whisperer -- all they would have found hiding the corners were two giddy
guests whose only disappearing act involved a bottle of wine.
Within one weekend at The Plaza I’d exhausted its Jameson supply,
stress-tested the coiling of its mattress with an ill-advised re-enactment
from “Home Alone 2”, and willingly subjected myself to a creepy
sounding “Vinothérapie” experience in the Plaza’s Caudalíe spa, whose
treatments harness “the untapped, restorative power of grapes and
grapevine polyphenols,” whatever that means. The only thing I took
away from the experience was the ego boost from my “vinotherapist”
who confirmed after years of suspicion I had the cleanest skin she’d ever
seen, a fact I owe not to genetics (curses, all of you!!!) but Kiehls. Now
hopefully they’ll send me a box of their refreshing, all natural Pineapple
Papaya Facial Scrub for shamelessly plugging them in this book.
But since I cannot afford to live in the Plaza like Eloise, who I bet is
getting her nails painted pink in one of the building’s 131 private
residences as I type this, I’m left with only the memories (and the sewing
kit) that will stay with me for at least the next week or so, or until a follow-
up visit when I will rightfully send the brat off to one of those tragic Irish
orphanages you see profiled on 60 Minutes or, worse: the home of her
real life inspiration Liza Minnelli.
Now that’s punishment!
But maybe too much so. When you’re modeled after a pill-popping,
bottle-throwing, yo-yo dieting, gay-husband marrying train wreck like
Liza, life cannot be that glamorous, no matter where you live, although
David Gest did wonders for the Fifth Ave pied-à-terre.
And so I left The Plaza and my bizarre fixation on Eloise and jetted
to my next destination: The Ritz-Carlton, Georgetown, creatively housed
in an old incinerator in Washington, DC which now exists as a super
trendy 80 room boutique hotel. As much as my enemies would like to
see me doused in flames, and they’ll get that chance, it won’t be here
because The Ritz-Carlton, Georgetown is easily the most cosmopolitan
of all DC’s hotels, and not the vision of burning flesh I seem to have
inspired in so many. Since it opened in 2003 the property has become a
virtual playground for the city’s hottest movers and shakers, as well as
visiting celebs like Ben Affleck. The mood is very alpha male, with a fire
motif running throughout the property, including the Degrees bar and
lounge and its signature restaurant, Fahrenheit.
It was there I continued the gluttony that has become The Travel
Snob with an 80 minute massage that could have relaxed even Timothy
Geithner, who looks so lost and forlorn at times I just want to tweak his
cheeks and take him to Dylan’s Candy Store. There, he can see that
things aren’t so dire, and if those horrible parents can still afford to buy
their spoiled children giant $300 stuffed Twizzler dolls then maybe the
world isn’t about to end.
The Ritz-Carlton, Georgetown is also home to my favorite bar
Degrees, where I spent way too much time enjoying Irish highballs and
coming up with random marketing gimmicks for the hotel, whose 90
percent occupancy rates and Five Diamond rankings fool no one. It
could definitely use a little of the je ne sais quoi I so naturally expel, and
after a run of cocktails that would have knocked Colin Farrel on his arse,
I was more than happy to share my ideas, which were scribbled furiously
on a napkin but still legible. The winner was a multi-platform branding
campaign that uses a well-known personality from the history books as
the Ritz-Carlton, Georgetown’s mascot: Satan, or as I like to call him,
Dad.
I personally think it’s brilliant. Fire theme, sinfully-delicious food and
the deal you’d make in a nanosecond for one more night spent sleeping
on its linens.
That’s a contract I would agree to, willingly. Except I’d sign it Eloise.
See how she likes those trappings.
