A Night with a Hotel Inspector. The Reality of Illusions Part 5

The pre-dinner walk was fantastic. The grounds are well maintained, colourful and with nice scenic views as this small video clip demonstrates.

A Night with a Hotel Inspector. The Reality of Illusions Part 4

The next moment can only be described as trauma in full blossom.

I felt as if I had been struck by lighting. I blinked again, thinking perhaps I wasn't seeing right. But no, I was not mistaken.

“Which idiot”, I thought, “could possibly put such a hideous, ghastly and nasty thing smack bang in your line of vision when you walk through the door into the hotel?”

I couldn't believe it. No, really! Why?

“Why not?” I heard those oh so familiar spirits whisper into my ear.

Some 21^st century, bright media marketing, sell it to the punters, twit, brainless bozo and dork, all rolled into one, had decided to put a giant LCD flat screen television in a corner of the actually quite small lobby. You could not avoid it. Like a ghost, it haunted you. The 4pm screening was a selection of the hotel bedrooms. As was the 8pm screening, the 10pm screening and the 10am screening the next morning. Must have won an Oscar. Did I miss the category for “best tasteless advertising”? I thought the Ryanair flight the day before had won that. Must have missed something then.

Never had I come across a more tasteless clash of styles. Brash commercialism collided head on with an otherwise nicely proportioned, intimately lit and comfortable lobby. In the middle was a large 3 seater sofa, a coffee table groaning under the weight of magazines and newspapers, but being very British about it: “keep a stiff upper lip”. Opposite the 3 seater were two antique looking comfortable armchairs. Dividing the seating area from the area immediately in front of the entrance stood an old mahogany sideboard displaying some hotel material. The lighting was discrete and warm. The colours a little on the dark side, browns and greens but nicely balanced with plenty of indirect lighting. To the right, blending in but still functional was the reception desk. We had hit the check-in rush.

Given our key, we walked past the young and conscientious porter who was calmly observing our passage out of the side entrance. Probably had back trouble, poor lad. Our room turned out to be in another part of the complex which once housed the stables. The original stables were below and what might have been the servants quarters were located above them. A somewhat steep set of stairs, being in the centre of the building, led up to the rooms which were located directly under the roof. Walking upright was not possible, you had to duck and more or less bent down in submission walk down the corridor to our room. I suppose the advertising guru with his ultra modern TV was having a go at me, snickering quietly to himself.

The room felt stuffy and I opened the windows and looked onto the courtyard. The main building was directly opposite us and smaller buildings to the left and right. It was all pleasantly laid out. The garden furniture looked invitingly on a sunny day, sipping a Pims and enjoying the peace and quiet.

“Don't touch anything” I was told. “We have to inspect the room first” The soft gentle features of this lovely lady had become business like as she took out her laptop and booted it up. “Can you take the printed report so that we have a written back-up, and so that our thoughts can match?”

“I thought our thoughts are always in perfect harmony” I thought to myself as I took the wad of paper that made up the report. All 29 pages of it.

I settled down on an armchair, took off my shoes and put my feet on the corner of the bed. Barely settled down, I had to get up because the whole thing was being pushed back.

“No dust here” she muttered. “That's unusual”.

Having gotten up, I walked to a bedside table on which stood two small bottles of water. One sparkling and one still. Next to them was a glass placed upside down. Picking it up, it was only by accident that I noticed that they had not been cleaned properly. Smeared marks were on the rim. I decided to drink out of the bottle instead.

“Oh dear”, I said. “Marks on the glass here”

“Make a note of it” came the somewhat strained reply as she glided her finger sensuously along the top of a picture frame. This act created a dust storm the size of a molehill.

“So the report says to tick “no” if we find one speck of dust” I said.

“Hmm” came the muffled reply from the wardrobe. More dust.

“How am I supposed to hang up my dress in this?” she exclaimed. “I'm taller than this thing. Iron needs to be cleaned”

“Yes, and the ironing board is so delightfully and beautifully placed here by this table” I replied. “So discrete. Fancy a cup of tea?”

“No, but check the tea and coffee facilities will you?”

Absent mindedly I picked up the cups. “Lipstick marks on one of them cups here”.

“This room is disgusting. Bed cushions stained. Bad choice of colour of the bed cover. It can show everything. Ugh! Let me check the bathroom....”

Ninety minutes later the room inspection was done and the findings recorded. My mood had begun to change from not just looking for faults but at this point wanting to deliberately find them. The TV was not properly tuned, the bathroom was only superficially clean.

I began to wonder how I would have reacted had I been a proper paying guest here. The rate was £200 (€250, $390) including breakfast and dinner. We would pay and get reimbursed later. I had been captivated by the building and the hotel grounds. The Rolls Royce, there for a wedding, had added a nice touch. The place had charm and ambience and for a quiet, naughty and self-indulgent weekend, perfect. The hotel was heavily pushing the relaxation buttons. Would have I noticed the dust and dirt under normal circumstances? Was the hotel's own expectations in line with that of the guests when it came to cleanliness or were guests becoming too distracted by the illusion that was slowly engulfing us? And would we actually care? Who was setting the excellence benchmark? The report was not coming out on top here.

I was feeling the lack of sleep. After munching away on a not very exciting ham and cheese sandwich and sharing a pot of tea which alone cost £7.50 ( €9.50; $14.50) we decided to go out and explore the grounds before heading off for our fine dining experience.

To be continued. Photos of the hotel can be seen on the slide show on the blog site.

A Night with a Hotel Inspector. The Reality of Illusions Part 3

To the uninitiated, England is a curious place. It is a strange mixture of unusual acts and beliefs they lovingly call “tradition” and some of the most progressive thinking in Western Europe. However, what they consider to be casual, others would think as being sloppy. Their reservedness, the quiet English “understatement” seems to have given way to brashness. The cliché “no sex please, we're British” has been torn down by the likes of Cosmopolitan telling young women what they should have “achieved and with whom and under what circumstances” by the age of 30. It has become a country seemingly at odds with itself, seizing the all the opportunities given and yet trying to maintain a semblance of tradition.

If you don't know any better, you would like to believe that the English are a genteel folk of tea drinkers, mingling in polite society, discussing the weather and generally being quite civilised. But then, the British are a multi-cultural mix today. Nobody describes the contradictions better than Bill Bryson in his wonderful book “Notes from a Small Island”.

The 22 hours on the go of my previous day had left their mark and I awoke the next day feeling slightly groggy but to the welcoming smell of freshly brewed (French) coffee drifting past my nose. The hot and sunny humid weather with the evening entertainment of spontaneous thunderstorms and flash flooding, which I had experienced all week at home, was not apparent here. It was that mild pleasant English weather. Not too hot, not too cold, just pleasant, not wanting to kick-up a fuss. It just wants to be there, in its own unassuming pleasant and gentle way. Aaahh!

Keeping out of the cross fire of the “conversation” amongst the 3 generations of women sharing my space that morning, I installed myself in an armchair and was given a cookbook to study. Best keep a low profile. A small hill of orange marmalade toast was placed by my side and another coffee. My brief was shut up and speak only when spoken to. Well, I can do that although others may beg to differ.

Studying the cookbook, it was further evidence that this too was a different England. For me, England challenges. It stubbornly provokes. Coming from a more classical background, I love the formality of dinners, the matching of wines and food, the style of a dinner party. I was raised and trained that certain wines, in fact, even down to a certain Chateau "xyz" are best suited to a particular dish, which out of principal must be prepared in such and such a fashion. It has a sense of being well ordered and cosily comfortable. The surprise is limited to the taste of familiar experiences and the memories associated.

Food in England has improved no end, to the point that many people claim that one can eat far better and more cheaply in London than in Paris. My “Chef du Matin” that morning, Jamie Oliver, and a whole host of true chefs and chef celebrities took the media exposure in their hands and have transformed the gastronomic scene. Using the multi-cultural influences which are so abundant in Britain, they have questioned and provoked the established schools of culinary thought and produced some exciting and truly sensational tastes. This was supported by the readiness of the retailers to make the ingredients, no matter how exotic, easily accessible.

To underline this experience, the lad Jamie, has even changed the cooking language. Instead of “take 3 courgettes” he writes, “take your 3 wonderfully formed courgettes”. Cooking becomes sexy and fun. Instead of “mixing” you “whiz” everything in the mixer.

So, every time I am in England, I sense the presence of a huge question mark and the words “Why not” drifting through the air.

The domestic disputes having being more or less subjected to a temporary ceasefire, and after being appropriately fortified by a cup of tea, my gorgeous and wicked hotel inspector and I took off on our mission of being a leisure couple. Pulling it off would be as simple as the the game plan: She was on duty, I was in for the ride. It would be fun. A great night after a great dinner followed by an even greater breakfast, all taking place in this blissfully quiet, sedate and secluded hideaway of hotel. Aaahhh. Images of “The English Patient” pleasantly drifted by.

In the garden of England, otherwise known as Kent, not far from Maidstone is the small village of Lenham. It is picturesque sort of a place, one or two Tudor style buildings, the usual array of small town shops and pubs. But like most English towns, they seem to have been left to develop naturally with the result that the SUV's jostle for the limited parking and the remaining traffic clogs up everything else. Leaving Lenham one drives through very narrow country lanes with vegetation sprouting in all directions. The curves are sharp and there is no telling if there is any oncoming traffic. Nor are there any thoughts spared about which side of the road one should drive on. The middle will do fine because the road is about as wide as the car, so pray that when someone comes from the opposite direction you can inch past each other. Wonderful.

The directions, thoughtfully provided by the hotel on it's website, mentions that at about ½ a mile outside of Lenham, the road would fork and we had to turn left. There would also be a sign. Indeed, it was there. But it didn't seem to be having good day. Like a wilting tomato plant, it slouched around, bearing its message almost grudgingly. Looking at it, it seemed to blankly stare back at you and whisper that yes, I suppose I should tell you that you are at the right place. Just drive on, you'll get there, if you really must be that inconvenient and disrupt the quiet, placid surroundings.

We drove on and a little while later, we were smartly greeted by a proud and bold sign bearing the hotel's name and pointing to the gate. Beyond was an enormous park lands, greener than green lawn tall and proud trees and a drive that seemed to extend to the horizon. Grandeur came to mind.

Driving in, we followed the drive for ¼ of a mile and came to a large Edwardian building. This had to be it. Red bricks, large windows, wide window frames. Greenery and shrubbery everywhere.

Further down from entrance leading to the reception was a scene right out of the film starring Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson “The Remains of the Day”. An old Rolls Royce was parked further down the chauffeur sitting inside and a member of staff, carrying what appeared to be a silver tray was standing there and talking to him. A pity that the white gloves were not being worn.

A young woman, most certainly of high breeding stood there holding a glass of champagne the faint hint of snobbery smirking its way across her face. As the Rolls drove by, she turned and followed it in her gaze, the champagne glass being delicately held between her dainty fingers on an even daintier hand. The more modern cars parked seemed to distort the picture somewhat but I chose to ignore their existence and so they simply vanished.

I felt right at home. Exchanging a cheeky smile and a twinkle in the eye, the lady by my side and I lifted our heads and together we strode inside. The pleasure and the experience was about to begin.

To be continued.

Modern Careers

Capturing the imagination: Carla Sarkozy, née Bruni. France's first lady.

http://tinyurl.com/3lb27o

A Night with a Hotel Inspector. The Reality of Illusions Part 2

Forget Sex and the City. This is much more realistic. I had a dirty weekend. There was passion. There was begging and apologies. There was disappointment. There was sheer amazement at what can be possible. And there were lots of fun and games.

Let me tell you that spending a night, in fact, a whole weekend with a hotel inspector will change your outlook and make you see and do things you have never done before. The earth will shake, it is a memorable experience. It will change your life forever. Trust me!

Those who may have seen “The English Patient” starring, amongst others, a caring Juliette Binoche and an enticing Kristin Scott-Thomas may think that travelling in those days must have been a romantic experience. It probably was – the mysticism of distant places, the exciting smells and sounds and the lure of fascinating people. Something affordable for the select few and who clearly knew how to maximise the experience.

I know I am a snob when I say, wouldn't it sometimes be nicer if this aura of exclusivity would still remain and not have everything opened up to the often unappreciative masses herding themselves around everywhere and consuming everything without any appreciation?

My tale starts at the exceedingly quaint and quiet airport in Baden-Baden, where for less than the price of an average train ticket, an Irish mass air lifter would hurl me across the channel and deposit me at an airport north of London. Baden – Baden airport handles about 12 flights a day, not much more. The security is as professional as everywhere else but the people are human. There are no queues. The restaurant is crap and the shopping is limited for those interested. But, with on-line check-in, you can make it to the gate stress free and still have had a leisurely dinner at home, a pleasant drive to the airport and catch a smile from the security people. Baden-Baden airport once used to be a Canadian Air Base and never have I seen a more tree filled airport than that.

It being a Friday night, things are a step busier but the influences are not home made, they waft in from outside.

“Good evening. Ryanair wish to announce that due to the late departure of the inbound plane, the flight no. Frxxxx to London Stansted will be delayed by 30 minutes”.

A short text is sent to England announcing that I would be late. “Love you squillions. Xxxxx” I swoon in anticipation before settling down to try and concentrate on my book. But of course, every Tom Dick and Harry are travelling too, and as enthralling as the book is, concentration is not easily come by. A French woman and her son strategically position themselves next to me. The son can't sit still nor can his mother's mouth remain shut. A gentleman of slight oriental origins speaks into a mobile phone and tells someone, “I want you to cast your mind back 23 years, who do you think I have with me...?. No! Go back to.....” and then he hands his phone to the French woman and she lets loose a salvo of words and sentences. What an interesting combination I thought: an Pakistani male with a French woman. “Oui, j'habite a Strasbourg” she blurts into the phone in a voice which drills itself right into my skeleton. But this international combination was only a facade because as the “those passengers who have paid for there priority boarding or checked in on-line” were bussed to the plane, he was discussing some property deal with a fellow Englishman while she, apparently of a more democratic mindset took the “normal passengers”. Nor did they sit in the same part of the plane. Ah, no couple to people watch. Madame proceeded to make another round of telephone calls to all and sundry and then loudly ruffled through various newspapers which, when we were called to board, she calmly left on the chairs for some poor person lower down the food chain to collect and put in a bin. Ah, such style to casually deposit a copy of Le Figaro on the chairs. Only the French can do this with such grace, a flick of the nose and an elegant release of the fingers. There is romance in travelling after all!

Opposite me was a couple who later turned out to be German but were of the indistinguishable jet set type. He was dressed in a fine navy blue suit, a still crisp very white shirt (it being now 9:30pm), cuff links on his shirt sleeves. His tie perhaps a touch too red. Gray hair, beautifully groomed, adorned his somewhat squarish, slightly tanned face which was in deep concentration as he read what must have been a very important business report. His legs were crossed revealing black socks at the correct length (no leg showing) and very well polished black shoes. He was a in a class of his own as was his more casually but still smartly attired wife who was flicking through a more upper class woman's magazine. It was only when he was reading a local Baden-Baden paper did she dare interrupt him with some snippet of gossip.

The plane finally decided to land (45 minutes late) and once off loading those returning from paradise, it swallowed us heading for paradise. Ryanair is an Irish budget airline, or low cost airline. By some methods of creative accounting and rewriting the rules for double-entry bookkeeping, it manages to ferry people from A to B in Europe at virtually next to nothing. If you book early enough. The fare itself came to €9 ($14) but all the taxes, surcharges and what have you brought the total fare to €36 ($56) round trip Baden-Baden to London. For this you get a sardine style seat and free advertising: “Get €40 worth of phone calls with a €10 phone card from ....fish communications” and “ Had a long day or having a long day? You have to be at your peak performance all the time” I listened with anticipation of the weekend ahead but declined to buy the miracle potion that was supposed to invigorate everything and maintain my immune system. Immune from tacky advertising I wondered? Later during the flight we were invited to take advantage of the “free delivery” of the lottery scratch cards available for purchase from the flight attendants on the plane for £1 or £2. You've got to give it to the Irish – they could sell you your own grandmother.

Part of the fun of flying for me is to see how far one can push the limits. In the years of commuting back and forth between England and Germany, I would give the check-in girl my reference number and declare that I didn't have any luggage, no hand luggage, there was just me as I stood there.

“Do you have any luggage, Sir?”

!!!!!!!!!

“Good evening. This is my reference number, I have no luggage and the sharpest thing I have is my tongue”. The German check-in girls smiled and took it with humour. Their English counterparts couldn't cope.

So, as I patiently waited in line to the neon sign proudly stating “UK BORDER” at Stansted Airport, I noted that I had hit the jackpot once again. He probably is a really nice bloke, great to have a drink with and could probably, off duty, tell you a whole host of really funny stories. But on duty, well, he treated everyone with professional contempt. I shuffled up. He looked at me. Looked at my ID card. Looked at me. Scanned the ID card (Folks, com'on, we're in Europe), looked at me, looked at the ID card. “Would you mind taking off your glasses, sir?” He looked at me and the ID card again and then handed slowly and deliberately, handed me my ID card. “I'm still me” I mumbled and strode off before they could enforce the “Assault warning” hanging behind them.

Land side, a woman spotted me, and imitating the last scene in “Love Actually” where a dopey Hugh Grant playing the Prime Minister is greeted by his new girlfriend, running up to him and throwing herself in his arms, I too was hurled upon, smacked a kiss and told “You're late”.

to be continued.

A drive through the English countryside.

Driving though a small English village about 50 miles south of London. Narrow roads, many cars and quite a few bumps in the road as well. The village post office on the left and ahead, before we turn off to the right, a country village pub "The star" which is quite nicely lit up in the evenings.

Everything is very green and it is difficult to imagine that there is a major international airport just 10 minutes away.

The Reality of Illusions Part 1