One Star Superstars
I was recently speaking with a friend who told me, somewhat sheepishly, that she’d booked a spring holiday at a Club Med. Her assumption was that my quarter century working in High-end travel somehow meant that I’d look down my nose at her choice of hotel. Not in the slightest.
For starters, I’m firmly of the belief that when it comes to travel (or most things, for that matter) there’s no absolute right or wrong. Where, when, and how someone chooses to travel is entirely up to them. I may have some opinions (which I might be inclined to express with some enthusiasm), but how could I say for certain what’s best for someone? “À chacun son goût”, as the French would say. Indeed, to each his or her own.
When it comes to hotels, my tastes are flexible. I love a gorgeous, refined hotel. Mais oui. But I also appreciate less fancy places too. The merits of a hotel aren’t always written in its stars. What I most appreciate in a property is a sense of being somewhere special—a sense of staying in a story, a sense of genuinely connecting to the place, a sense of character, a sense of quirk, a sense of fun.
My low-star all-star lists includes a handful of uncut gems, like Stowe’s Innsbruck Inn (high alpine kitsch in the heart of Vermont ski country), the Four Acres Cottages in Maine (whose mignon red and white cottages are in the same immaculate condition as they were when I first stayed there at the age of three), and New Delhi’s no-longer-there Central Court Hotel (a musty, dusty throwback to colonial times on Connaught Circus). None of these places could be described as opulent, yet each of them is/was luxuriously memorable in one way or another.
If I had to anoint just one hotel as the king of the One Star Superstar genre, it would surely be Hotel Henri IV on Place Dauphine in Paris. Sadly, it no longer exists, but its shadow is long.
In 1607, King Henry IV created a public square (bit of a misnomer, as it’s actually a triangle), at the pointy western tip of Île de la Cité in the middle of Paris. 387 years later, in search of the city’s thriftiest possible lodging, I discovered Hotel Henri IV at 25 Place Dauphine, a very old building that apparently once housed the king’s printing press. Drawn to the crooked charm, cheap rooms, and truly unbeatable location (the geographic bullseye of Paris), I stayed at the Henri IV a dozen times or more over the next few years on my way to/from guiding bike trips throughout France.
I remember the spartan and minuscule quarters (almost all of which required you to walk up our down a flight of dark, twisting stairs to a grotty shared bathroom). I remember the reception and breakfast area which had a ceiling so low your head practically rubbed against it (when you were sitting down). And I remember the service, which was as thin and unpleasant as the carpet enjoyed by only a few of the more premium rooms. Two decades ago a TripAdvisor reviewer quipped, “It has been known to be awful forever.” Perhaps. But against all odds, the experience of staying there was weirdly captivating. Maybe it was simply a matter of being young and free in Paris.
My fondness for the place was so forgiving that I included a two-night stay at the Henri IV at the start of our honeymoon. I figured it would be an atmospheric bridge between my footloose, fancy-free bachelor years and our footloose, fancy-free family life. It turns out that a swayback three-quarter width bed was the wrong choice for a three-month pregnant bride. In any case, the experience only added to the legend and every time I visit Paris I make a point of strolling through Place Dauphine and tipping my cap to the greatest one of all.
