Notes from the Biltmore (pt. 2)

This has been my day so far:

Startled awake by the electronic screech of the cheapo alarm clock. The Boy leapt in the shower to get ready to go do conference stuff, and I pressed a couple of his shirts. The brand of iron was Toastmaster, which made me consider calling room service for slices of bread for experimentation purposes.

After The Boy went off to his conference, I wandered down to breakfast in the open-air courtyard.

A table by a gently tinkling fountain. Palm trees at my shoulder; vigorous potted rosemary plants on the tables. Fresh papaya juice, good coffee, steel-cut Irish oatmeal and mixed fresh berries bursting with flavor.

Mind you, that pleasant experience cost $25.

And then I figured out where the pool was. Oh. Oh, the pool.

So back up to the room to change into my new bikini, bought last week.

I had planned to post a rant about the horrors of bikini shopping. But it turned out to be a not-terrible experience. I ended up with a fetching black and white polka-dot ensemble that's sufficiently modest (for an almost-40-year-old) without being grandmotherly. That, plus my silver sandals and oversized black sunhat, made me actually want to expose my pale skin.

I found a lounger next to the pool and settled in. Reading material (New Yorker, Freakonomics): check. iPod: check. Bottle of water: check. Sunscreen: check.

All was quiet, peaceful, relaxing. Perfect.

And then a four-year-old moppet, with grandmama in tow, took the loungers to my left, and spent much of the day doing that high-pitched toddler shriek that causes dogs to bark.

And two young women came and sat to my right, comparing skin tone ("You're so much more tan than me"/"No, you're, like, way more tan") until they ordered a cocktail, got impatient ("Why isn't it here yet? It takes, like, four seconds to make a daiquiri") and left.

And the male Samoan out-of-work banker sitting at the end of the row kept trying to make conversation with the female New York out-of-work TV producer sitting behind me, despite her best efforts to rebuff him.

I was close to yelling at them all to "JUST SHUT THE HELL UP, CAN'T YOU?" And then The Boy, on his lunch break, arrived to see how I was doing.

"I really need to get something to eat," I said.

So he walked with me round the pool to the cafe before going inside for his networking buffet. I sat in the shade next to the water. Tall, frosty mojito; conch shell filled with hot, fresh, golden conch fritters, served with a nice curry-cumin-red pepper dipping sauce.

Somewhat fortified, I resumed my place in the noisy corner of the pool. Listened to music, read, and watched a photo shoot for teen fashions (the young models switching effortlessly from between-shots yawning boredom to now-we're-working dazzling vivacity).

A nice enough way to spend the day. And then later I discovered that the conference organizers had set aside a private cabana for accompanying spouses. I could have spent my day abusing the cabana boy! Who knew?

Notes from the Biltmore (pt. 1)

Thunderstorms and tornado warnings had pushed our flight’s departure time back two and a half hours, and by the time we arrived in Miami, collected our luggage and rode to the hotel, it was pushing 2am. But even when viewed through a drowsy fog, the Biltmore is a very very cool place.

The lobby has ridiculously high vaulted ceilings, painted like a starry night sky.



In the middle of the floor sit aviaries that look like something from 20,000 Leagues under the Sea; inside, tiny birds, heads tucked under wings, sleep in woven straw nests.



Given the lateness of the hour, the desk clerk was not waiting at attention for us; he had to put down his bowl of cereal and turn off South Park to check us in.

Our room is up a winding stone staircase lined with painted Spanish tile.



King-sized bed with white linens. The bathroom walls and floor are cream-gold stone.

The view outside is of the front entrance, meaning that one could, if so inclined, spend the day watching the parade of Porsches and Beemers coming up the drive and disgorging men in golf shirts and women in white dresses and high heels.



It's always interesting, in hotels, to see where the level of detail stops; at what point does the management decide they don't have to go the whole hog? Lobbies in fancy-pantsy places like this are always breathtaking; restaurants and bars are inviting; and for the most part, the in-room experience is a continuation of the brand ... to a certain extent. It often seems that, at some point, there's a decision to stop with the luxury and fill in the blanks with cheap stuff.

Example: at the Biltmore, the bathroom has a generous supply of insanely thick towels and there are TVs in both the bedroom and living area and fluffy white Frette bathrobes and satin-covered clothes hangers. And then the clock-radio is a cheap, lightweight plastic box. The ironing board in our room has seen much duty, and opens with a painful metal-on-metal screech.

A card in the bathroom indicates that there's a hair dryer "in bottom drawer of armoiré" (since when has the word had an accent? Probably since someone decided it sounded more posh that way).

And there appears to be one--only one--electrical outlet in the room, hidden behind the couch.

I'm writing this while sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, the only location that allows me to hook up the short internet cable and the laptop's power adaptor at the same time.

I know. Oh, poor me.