There’s something about posh hotels that just makes you want to speak with an English accent, you know? The fact that the majority of the staff here at the Ritz (in DC, no less) has that sophisticated, elite, pompous but lovely intonation doesn’t help, and makes me just want to say “AAH yes, Jeeves, why of course you can assist me with my bags, it is to be expected.” Or something along those lines.
I swear. Step one foot into this lovely establishment and I stand a bit taller, a bit straighter, a bit more of the nouveaux riche poseur that I can so effectively pretend to be. I inherently put on my (jasmine scented) airs, perhaps at a pathetic attempt to prove to the staff that, why yes, I DO deserve to be here.
Now, I’ve stayed in some nice hotels before — Australia brought me to the ANA Harbour Grand Hotel Sydney down on The Rocks, I lavished the sun at the Coral Beach Hotel in Marbella, Spain, and for one reason or another, I’ve been on intimate terms with the Ritz in Atlanta a few times. I’ve become accustomed to the 400-thread count delight that beckons me to oversleeping, the plush white robes that have beckoned some to do gyrating, post-midnight dances, and the telephone next to the toilet. And I like it.
I don’t want to return to my life as the pauper-esque homeowner with (two plus one) cats, with the daily drabble that is work, life, bills, finances, cat food, cat poop, dishes, laundry and, you know, all that stuff that I keep saying that one day I’ll hire a personal assistant to do for me. I like being a high-roller, a baller, a player (all adjectives come courtesy of my hilarious boss), I like my posh poseurdom, I like playing little rich girl in big bad hotel and, dammit, I like the expensive food and the mini-bar and the status that goes along with it.
Pretentious? You bet.
Pompous? Even better.
Addictive? They need a 10-step program for this, I tell you, or at least something to help our symptoms of withdrawl.
Oh, that’s right, they do! It’s called Champagne, and I think I see some with my name on it in the mini-bar. Heck, it’s a medical necessity, and who am I to stand in the way of health promotion?
From me, from the Ritz, from DC — champagne wishes and caviar dreams.