I never read the Eloise books as a child, but I can imagine if I had encountered them before the age of 10, I would have been enchanted. The books’ premise is still thrilling to me as an adult: a six-year-old who, with her pug, her turtle and her nanny, lives in the Plaza Hotel in New York, and engages in japes and fun adventures. Imagine getting to explore the sights and sounds of New York city before returning “home” to speedy room service and a solid eight hours between high thread count cotton sheets. What’s not to love?
Hotels are a site of cultural fascination for so many of us. Even when they fall somewhere rather south of three stars, literature and the screen have made us well-versed in the choreography of hotel living. I personally like to hang up a shirt or a dress. Sometimes, I place something semi-valuable – like my laptop – in the safe and pretend it’s diamonds. I am more often than not travelling for work, but that is no reason not to pretend. Hotel rooms, like the one I was in recently, offer the illusion of a vast disposable income and the seductive dream of a blank canvas: reinvention, should you wish it. In my hotel room experience, I love a long bath, and wrapping myself in a complementary robe to channel-hop cable TV. Before I turn in (get the turn-down service, if you can), I call the front desk to arrange a wake-up call. No phone alarm for me.
Of course, I am still a prole at heart. Which is why, after the luxurious hotel bath I took on my last trip, I diligently wiped down the tub. I love hotels, but I was raised to clean up after myself. I can’t unlearn that just yet.
