It’s a luxury hotel because that’s what every new hotel in the city seems to be these days.
A sort of fey luxury that seems simultaneously forced and nonchalant, curated within a millimetre of its overly designed minimal maximalist interiors. Mid-century pastiche without the pastels.
It’s part of a luxury hotel group that picked up the brand in some merger and acquisition when interest rates were far lower than today. It’s managed by a string of holding companies set up in the Maldives for tax advantages.
The pitch is not so much a hotel as an experience to help you slow down, connect and savour the good life. There’s a rooftop pool and deck overlooking the city, a ground floor café and bar, and a restaurant that continues to garner terrible reviews.
The room is positioned flush to a rear lane with a frail Ginkgo Maidenhair tree on the corner. A quintessential inner city view. With complimentary spring water and artisanal coffee pods. High-quality skin care products and branded cotton bathrobes. King-size bed with layers of foam and pocketed coil springs. White duck feathers and down pillows and duvet. Three hundred thread count white cotton line.
There’s no need to book an early morning wake-up call from reception because the sound of a garbage truck noisily backing down the lane and swapping out giant waste bins from hundreds of guests and thousands of meals will wake the dead.
Thankfully the smell doesn’t rise quite as high.