Swan Break - A Night at The Sofitel

If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, the chances are it's a duck. That's how I feel about airport hotels. Same experience, same disappointment, same 'Wish I wasn't there'. Quack, quack.

It's the footfall, the transience, the somewhere to lay your head for the night mentality that puts me off. In general, I try to avoid airport hotels. I'm happy to travel in and out of the nearest city to stay elsewhere, even if it is the same name over the door. I guess I have a more in-depth relationship with a hotel - so many nights away, a hotel for me is an extension of my home. I don't want to feel like I am at summer camp.

But, there are times where they are a must. Last flight in, first flight out and, dare I say it, somewhere to lay your head for the few hours in between.

And so unfolded my Friday...I took the proverbial bull by the horns and booked to stay at the Sofitel, at Heathrow's Terminal 5. Covered walkway, convenience, click, done. And breathe...and wait for the quack....

No quack came. The Sofitel was not such an ugly duckling. This was no ordinary covered walkway - it was a catwalk, lined with pictures of luxury cars and surrounded in a fresh scent of jasmine, or lily of the valley or something opium-esque that had a lure like the poppy field that captured Dorothy on the yellow brick road.

Through to the upper lobby, a glow of blue LED lights guides you through modern statues and down escalators to reception, more art and fabulous chandeliers.

I'm a sucker for a chandelier. Sofitel, you had me at Hello.

My preconceived ideas subsided. I'm not sure if there is a use of white noise, but there certainly wasn't crowd noise, nor overnight bar revellers, nor standing room only lobby space. This was as sleek as an inter-city Sofitel, right through to fresh decor of the bedrooms. 

Ok, they missed the homeliness of flowers or a personal touch but they were roomy, muted colours, had leather lounge seats and cool technology. The bathrooms were spacious, with fluffy towels and robes, walk-in monsoon showers and luxury toiletries from The White Company. Early start or not, this was well invested sleep.

Room service and breakfast in Vivre - great food and incredibly friendly service. Somewhere to lay your head? Well, you might just want to plan an extra day before you fly out again. Sofitel quacks the mould. The airport hotel has finally spread its wings and grown into a beautiful swan.

'Til next time, Pandora

Sofitel, Terminal 5, London Heathrow Airport, London
Photos: Pandora Skies and Sofitel

She Came, She Warsaw, She Conquered...

I love travelling. And I love travelling to new places. But, sometimes, in the busy pace of work you simply check your blackberry, board the plane and land without any expectations, without time to research or plan. It's work, after all.

So, I didn't expect to find what I did on my first time trip to Poland. I don't know why, but I just imagined it to be like other countries in Eastern Europe - obvious traces of history, crumbles and cracks of tumultuous times, a palette of grey and a peppering of Ladas on roads that are gradually opening up to a new pop of high-rise and recognised hotel chains. Don't get me wrong, Budapest, Prague, Belgrade...all amazing cities, each with their own print impression but, to that point, I just expected Warsaw to follow suit.

I didn't expect the flash modernity of steel and glass at Chopin Airport. I didn't expect the American diners en route to the city, nor the fully fitted credit card paying taxis. I didn't expect the a neon, almost skyscraper, skyline that silently screamed Welcome to Modern Warsaw. Rightly or wrongly, I didn't expect this, and I was impressed.

And it got better. Driving towards my hotel for the evening, the Marriott twinkled like a a telescopic view into space, it's 40 storey black box sparkling with LED lights. Inside, an atrium lobby of chandeliers, escalators, suits and international accents that made it very clear this was a place to do business.

Upgraded to the 36th floor, the view. A view to wow at - overlooking Warsaw's stunning Palace of Culture, standing tall and proudly imposing beside the bubble-like curvature of modern architecture of the the Złote Tarasyall mall. So wonderful, I couldn't draw my drapes, and it serenaded me to sleep like a lullaby and awakened me the next morning with sunrise. 

My visit was brief. Long enough to have sky-high cocktails from the 49th floor Panorama bar, overlooking this amazing city, have breakfast and spend a day working with locals in the office. Too short to remember my 3 words of taxi-taught Polish, sample local cuisine and really get under the skin of the city. Or, for that matter, to try my luck in the Marriott integrated casino!

So I shall return, for certain, and explore more of Poland. If you manage to visit first, I highly recommend the Marriott (be sure to ask for height, the views are worth it).

'Til next time, Pandora


Marriott Hotel Warsaw - Al. Jerozolimskie 65/79 · Warsaw, 00-697 Poland
Photos: Pandora Skies and Marriott Hotels

All Things Bright and Bloomsbury....(and a bedroom very small)

I have blogged in the past about my "Search for Design Intervention" on my regular hotel planning around the world. So my somewhat hymnal introduction to my stay in London this week seems appropriate to carry on this theme and, indeed, testament that sometimes the retreat for sleep is not always heavenly.

My usual forward planning got turned on its head in London, this week, as I was obliged to cancel my perfect pillow plans, last minute, to relocate to my clients' abode. Their hotel was, in fact, MyHotel. Which is ironic, given it was not my first choice but, yes, last-minute booking found me a room at MyHotel Bloomsbury (award winning 4 star boutique, according to their website).

My experience at MyHotel was a game of two halves. An episode of Upstairs, Downstairs in reverse. An uber-modern Downton Abbey, of sorts, but with the lower quarters much more pleasing than life above ground floor.

Now, arriving late to the party rarely guarantees you the best seat in the house, so I have to be humbly opinionated about being assigned a tiny room, given I booked just hours before arrival. But there is small, and there is bijou. I was in the latter, the sense of space not helped by frosted windows, turquoise walls and dark magenta bedding accessories.

The flat pack furniture was trying to be minimalist, maybe had seen better days, but I was grateful at least for the oversized bed - it may well have eaten up precious floor square footage, but it was the only thing making my corner feel welcoming and less claustrophobic. And, credit where credit is due, I had an insanely good night's rest.

Decor in hallways and, from what I see on the website, in the other rooms has better married the use of bold colour block. Perhaps this is where the boutique awards were granted. For me, the use of bright and bold seemed to contradict the efforts to create a hotel-zen and my personal room experience felt more youth hostel than boutique, bed excepted. 

Let's go downstairs. The zen feng-shui is more aligned. There is a buzz that is young and vibrant, the lobby area has a dotcom feel about it. Buddha statues, fish tanks and super bright sweetie dishes decorate an open plan reception that is sandwiched between Gail's Artisan Bakery and Gails Kitchen, both an integration of MyHotel Bloomsbury dining facilities. Compact, too, but ample. There is also a clever remote working, non-corporate, concept here with meeting and office space that attracts the office denim wearing, no tie type. Laid back and lovely.

This is good. Ochre leather banquettes provide a laptop free zone to chill over the newspapers. Cool loungerino music adds a daytime vibe and mellows by night. Cocktail shaking, good food, glossy mags and a a stylish blend of rustic wood with barstool and wire framed chairs. Design here works, and dining is good (seriously, breakfast practically transports you to Provence).

So, am i a budding fan of MyHotel Bloomsbury? I might not quite extend to a blooming marvellous, but there is a blossom of positivity. My advice - book early and bag a big (bigger) room. Oh, and have the Danish for breakfast, Gail knows how to magic the perfect pastries.

'Til next time, Pandora

Photos: pandora skies and myhotels Bloomsbury 

In Bed with a Bard - To Chic, or not to Chic...

....that is the question. Although, perhaps a somewhat rhetorical one. I mean, when have I been known to de-chic when it comes to a hotel retreat! You only ever need one Ibis experience to teach you the lesson that less is definitely not more, when it comes to home comforts.

This week my travels took me to Stratford-upon-Avon. Home of Shakespeare, quaint and crooked houses and a plethora of quintessential English touist-pulling magnetic charm - more tea rooms than you could dunk a custard cream in, more curiosity shops than there is curiousness, more English pubs and eateries than you could have time to eat in.

Soaked in heritage and literary delight, it would be very easy for such history to over-indulge with street upon street of postcard perfect Ye Olde Inns, grandmotherly dressed in candle wicked bedsteads and dusty relics claiming to be from the hands if Horrick. And these there are. But Stratford has style... 

Set just opposite the stunning Royal Shakespeare Company sits the Arden Hotel, endorsed by the theatre and a perfect soliloquy of modern chic betwixt the heritage of listed buildings.

So, unsurprisingly, like the call of Juliette to Romeo, I met my first love of Stratford sleep - a luxurious boutique retreat, roll top bath, giant plump bed and an apothecary of designer L'Occitane pamper miniatures, at The Arden Hotel.

A member of the Small Luxry Hotel collective, I didn't expect this to disappoint but the Arden wooed me and seduced me. So enamoured, I let it kiss on this first date and unashamedly I stayed the night. Calm decor in yellows and greys in the lobby, classic English hallways that are a labyrinth to rooms that are sanctuaries of a Midsummer Night's Dream.

At the Arden you are not a number, every room is named after a tree and I was personally escorted to my upgraded Mulberry room. A palette of apple and plum, enriched with brocades and velvets dressing crisp hotel white cotton, all overlooking the Avon River and serenaded to the sound of English countryside church bells.

Elsewhere in the hotel, sprial staircases and hidden doorways. Chesterfield tea lounges, breakfast overlooking the RSC.
A beautiful retreat, wonderful service, a true escape to the classic English countryside. I will be back to Stratford, and I will definitely be back to the Arden.

To sleep, perchance to dream.....

'Til next time, Pandora

Photos: Pandora Skies

The Arden Hotel, Waterside, Stratford-upon-Avon

www.theardenhotelstratford.com / www.slh.com

A Rather Royal Affair - Lunching at The Goring

It's not every day your little sister pulls the ultimate trump card by getting an invite to Buckingham Palace to receive an MBE. So it seemed appropriate that my return to blogging (and, with it, a surrender to sibling rivalry) should at least mark an adequately special occasion, not least when it's hosted in the only hotel of Royal Warrant in the UK, a post-Palace luncheon at London's prestigious Goring.

An MBE. Let's face it, it needed to be followed by something of Royal importance. A club sandwich in the Slug and Lettuce was just not going to cut this one. And, if the Goring is good enough for pre-nuptial breakfast for Kate Middleton, then I expect it to be more than respectable for the newly anointed MBE and her hoi poloi.

The Goring did not disappoint. In fact, it pleasantly surprised. By surprised I mean accommodating, amiable, relaxed, personal. Don't get me wrong, I didn't expect to have a bad experience, I just expected the afternoon to be one to mind your p's and q's, extend your pinkie, most definitely not slurp your soup. Service was as impeccable as you would imagine from a locale of royal appointment, but never imposing.

Friendliness exuded at every point. The steady flow of fascinators and long tail coats passing through reception suggested the Goring was indeed a popular choice, post-Palce. Each of us was met by a super efficient concierge who exchanged jackets for a rather flamboyant woven key tassel with our cloakroom number. I liked this decadence.

Escorted to the bar, we had an hour before lunch, and were settled fireside in opulent yellow and grey toned brocade sofas, accessorised in leopard. The bar had a gentlemans club feel to it - pinstripe suits with bright socks, gingerly swirling brandy. But it was softened with politeness and smiles. Hors d'oeuvres were served with drinks. Homemade sugar-dusted garibaldis for the parents' tea and savoury snacks for the wine drinkers with queen olives as plump as the luxurious velvet upholstery I had now nestled into.

Soon our server accompanied us to the restaurant, a beautiful breath of fresh air and bright light, very English in style and the perfect setting for informal, but special lunch. Admittedly service was rather slow, but then again, who is in a hurry, when you are dining under the sparkle of Swarovski chandeliers?

Lunch was divine. It needs little more to describe it than that, if I'm honest - beautifully presented, I indulged in smoked salmon and lobster omelette to start, followed by grilled sardines and a good old bread and butter pudding to top up the calorie count. Some would say that was suffice, but nobody around the table could ignore the pure chocolate heaven of the petit-fours with coffee.

An wonderful treat, an amazing day. Definitely fit for a princess, most definitely a blogging sibling MBE.

'Til next time, Pandora.

The Goring, Beeston Place, London SW1W 0JW, www.thegoring.com
Pictures: Pandora Skies, The Goring Hotel

Blogging in Heels.....The Next Chapter

It's true what they say, that time flies. But, if the adage of it flying when you're having fun stands true, then my number one hobby for the last 24 months has been long hours, endless email and a small but growing chasm in my social life. Admittedly there have been triple-digit flights and world-wide travel behind the whirlwind schedule and, I will confess, that has become the one part of my non-stop life that is not up for negotiation. Not quite yet. That part really is fun.

Yes, it's nearing on 2 years since I last blogged. I don't profess to be a expert, indeed the world has continued to spin rather successfully without my blogging rambles, but it's hard not to jump on the Internet bandwagon of opinion when you spend more than 75% of your day in cyberspace.

I mean, how else has the world become an overnight foodie, travel guru, photographer...? I'm just glad surgery remains a human and certified intervention, otherwise I'm sure we would be curing the world with the secret recipes of our great, great grandmothers!

A life in the skies and sleeping more often in hotels than in my own bed, I am one of many who spends more time chatting, tweeting and voyeuring in a virtual capacity than I manage in a human capacity. Come to think if it, I'm a prime candidate to begin the space colony for Richard Branson (*puts reminder in Blackberry to update CV and call).

My circle of (best) friends have expanded into the penthouse of the Twitterverse and, oddly, we have a lot in common. Home, family, human friends in a 20-mile radius of my postcode du jour - these are rare and precious times that I look forward to and cherish. In between, there is a lot of fun. It's time share this again.

So, after much persuasion, I am back blogging (the heels, if honest, have never come off). The next chapter from Pandora Skies will be less about my musings around the world and more about diffusing what I get to enjoy. I shall keep it brief, share with you what I see and do....and, if you find yourself anywhere I have been, then you'll have a good head start on enjoying it as much as I have.

I will work a little backwards as I move forwards, merge the old with new.
It's good to be back, enjoy the ride.

'Til next time, Pandora

Going for Gold, Ending up Burned.

They say that hindsight is a wonderful thing and indeed, when it comes to the behaviours of sun-tanning, my own hindsight is indeed filled with wonder. I wonder from what age and how we adopted the obsession with sun tans? I wonder how I physically survived the years of hardcore sunbathing in spf-free sun oils, never mind a teenage fixation of sunbeds? But, most of all, I wonder ...how is it, despite a modern society’s awareness of the harmful damage and the ease of non-sun alternatives to achieve an all over glow, this same obsession and battle remain unchanged for the youth of today?

Good wine may mature with age, and there is nothing as succulent as a well cooked aged steak but this week, as I watched the rows of sun worshippers sizzle in the European sunshine, I couldn’t help think…is our age an indication of our impatience and inexperience to cook up the perfect tan, regardless of the risk of burning or at what point do we pay attention to the smoke alarms?

My own Confessions of a Sun Worshipper has as many follies as bronzing oils - carrot, coconut, lemon, olive and any other oil that promised me to be a golden greek goddess from a fortnight on the Costas. But, accepting that nothing less than a full body skin graft would give me the 365 day olive skin of the Mediterranean, I soon found my niche in winter spray tans and summer spf that ensured I too could have a healthy glow from the sun that could still ensure my escape from the granny prune club.

Lined up like a row of sausages on the barbeque, I contemplated the spectrum of colours that rainbow from pink to golden to mahogany burned along the sun jetty and wondered….have we become so accustomed to quick-hit microwave dinners that nobody really checks the cooking instructions any more?  

The fresh skinned teens, a mix of pink from not covering up in the midday sun or day-after raw like a steak tata, coincidentally all harbouring the lemon, coco, olive oils in their beach bag beside the jumbo sized bottle of soothing aloe vera.

In the middle are the prime cuts - the succulent ones that catch your eye, a combination of seasoned steaks braising perfectly around the desired medium rare, turning regularly on each side, oiled with the perfect spf to create the desired golden finish to complement the origin of the meat, yet with room to cook for longer if the skin and the taste so desires.

And, at the opposite end of the grill, getting gradually closer to the left-over plate, the aged-steaks - dry and creasing from being too overdone yet, surprisingly, still layered in olive oil to cook some more, but little to no chance of looking succulent ever again.

So, as the buzzer sounds to call time to turn the meat and drizzle with oil once more, I consider how much better it is to go for gold with a barbeque that is so much tastier when its executed with time and effort and wonder...for those who quite simply ‘Can’t Cook, Won’t cook’….perhaps the booth is a better route to bronze?

‘Til next time, Pandora

The Trunki Junkies

I must admit, when I first saw the colourful quirkiness of the Trunki wheel pass me in London's Heathrow, I smiled. I think everyone does, they are bright and kooky and fun, so we all smile, in the way you smile at cute babies and fluffy toys. Well, before you remember that cute babies have not so cute lungs and fluffy toys have incessantly annoying built-in music.
 
And so begins the demise of my novelty for the aforementioned Trunki, as weeks pass by, and suddenly it  feels like every queue in every airport seems to have a Trunki gridlock as its epicentre and the kooky child carrier quickly morphs into the frequent flyers worst nightmare and I wonder...at what stage is it that natural loving parents all fall folly to post-natal amnesia that seems to forget that the average attention span of their toddler(s) is typically less than 10 minutes? 

As a frequent flyer I am all about convenience and travelling light, but I have pondered if there is some form of subliminal marketing messaging that accompanies the call of the Trunki? I wonder… can it be true that the USP (unique selling pitfall) is an instant parental sense of delusion that piling a child's must have toys and personal effects into another mini suitcase is, in fact, a weight offloaded?  

Even during the fun child-Trunki bonding (which last approximately 15 minutes) the entire family slows down to a vitual stop and, with that, a queue of restless airport commuters (or me). Perhaps it is the excitement of gleeful kiddie faces that means the general rules of  child safety are forgotten, but I wonder...where is it overlooked that children mounted on Trunkis cannot be pulled at speed, without it becoming a rodeo that inevitably ends in screams and occasional blood. Please note, crash helmets are not included

For older children the carnage takes a whole new format. More steady and better balanced than a wobbling toddler, they are capable of Trunki manoeuvring the departure lounge as if it were the Monaco Grand Prix. A whole new world of pain and tannoy announcements that also inevitably ends in delayed flights and buggies at security.
 
For the remaining 45 minutes of the hour, the remainder where the child-Trunki bond breaks when they have to actually trail it behind them, the risk of lost kiddie luggage can only be prevented when there is no other option but for it to be assumed the latest dad-bag. And a great look it is, too.
 
Admittedly not a parent myself, but I wonder....is it wishful thinking that our 3 year olds could be capable of carrying their own luggage, fending for themselves through a summer busy airport, or if they should get ‘lost’ at least they would have a night' s change of clothes and a squeaky toy?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Up Pompeii

Before you read this blog it is important to know that it is not intended as a call to to bring back dictatorship or an way an accolade for Frankie Howard. In fact I cannot attest to being in any way near knowledgeable on any of the above subjects, and can categorically confirm to having no interest of any form in the Carry on genre at all.

No, this week my random wanderings have taken me on a visit to the ancient city of Pompeii and with it an insight to the tumultuous history of events that saw its creation by the Romans, destruction from a volcano in AD 79, its belated discovery in the 17th century, rebuild by the Italians, and semi re-destruction by earthquakes in 1980 and 2009. As I embarked on my historical education it occurred to me that the hard work of mankind was constantly at the mercy of something more powerful and I wondered....to what point are we really in control of our destiny, or merely hamsters on the wheel of life that has a pre- determined outcome that we cannot avoid? 

Admittedly there have been countless natural disasters since the eruption of Vesuvius so many hundreds of years ago, all of which have caused tragic loss of life but as I explored the remains and artefacts from the excavation of this lost city I wondered ...if the ‘censorship’ of the modern world really provides as compelling an insight to human loss today, or are we protected from living the power of the possible that the natural world has over us?

Despite the speed of the Internet and live TV footage, I was never more moved than by the compelling artefacts (if you can call human form such a thing), as the plaster casts that were created from the ash protected ruins, despite Pompeii laid lost under ash for so long. A city created in AD, intricately designed with all the comforts we have in modern society with bars, bakeries and a Roman spa – the pain of the demise of our same day to day activities are captured powerfully through a bust of a twisted dog chained in his home and unable to escape, a pregnant lady holding her unborn child as she faced death...long before HDTV.

Years later, and re-tumbled in part from earthquakes, Vesuvius remains an active volcano that has a scientific question of certainty that says ‘we don’t know when, but it will erupt soon’. Yet, for the Italians living in the new Pompeii, and there are thousands, including those with child and with dogs, there is a sense of acceptance that one day this will come, that life will be lost, but life will be rebuilt.

So, as I left this incredible creation I wonder.....does the belief that we shape our own destiny allow for a more fulfilling life of the things and time we have, or is the sense of ‘more’ gained from working harder and having more give us the false escapism that we really need to survive?

 

‘Til next time, Pandora

Embarking on the Tourist Trek…

Its somewhat ironic that after a June that was abnormally busy with business travel spanning continents, my eventual time-out to return to blogging should begin in an airport! Well, they do say there is no place like home and, given my regularity with inter airport transit, as always it tends to be a common source for my blogging muse, if not on this occasion, amusement.

Travelling à la tourist tends to mean travelling with an airline of less familiarity (the ones that pack in as many holiday makers and their beach gadgets as possible), and with them the unfamiliar territory of the pre-flight wait without an exec lounge. As much as I may be guilty of lounge snobbery, as a result of more time spent chez terminal than chez home, as I wander in search for solace and a socket in a rapidly filling departure lounge, I wonder ….what it is that brings out behaviours of the infrequent flyers, than those of us who start red-eye and end the 9-5 on the last flight home?

I have numerous previous airport writings, all openly admiting my self confessed impatience in a terminal which, by the time a Friday business flight is called, is quite possibly insensitive to the fact that not everyone spends their morning and evening rush manoevering check in and security. However, looking around, although I recognise familiar pinstripe suits from the frequent flyer club lounge, I am surprised at the usual lack of control and precision displayed, now as glaringly absent as the colourfullyclad neon Bermunda shorts and I wonder….does a summer vacation automatically mean mayhem for even the seasoned traveller, or does the switchover to travel with the 2.4 children and boarding with more than a brief case and a blackberry call for a mental switch off of all things controlled?

The disciplined precision of time, pre-security planning and minimal hand-luggage is quickly little more than a distant postcard from Corporate as the family holiday commences and the proverbial Brits on Tour begins – security queues get longer with prams and groups, trays are overloaded with kiddie coloured ipods, family-sized mobile phone collections, teenage jumbo headsets and the inevitable  Nintendo DS ('cos it really wouldn’t br right if the electronic puppy died of starvation in the 2 weeks away, would it?...)

Once into the common room departure lounge, I watch as the travelling masses separate like the parting of the waves – ladies and children to the WH Smith mecca for the obligatory stock up of boiled sweets, full collection of weekly magazine issues, flight pillow and '3 for 2' book offer, whilst the non 2.4 owners (and the odd escaping husband) prop up the closest bar to top up their 6am tequila shots with beer and bacon sandwiches – and I wonder…does our holiday brain exert a certain vacation endorphine that pre-programmes us into a pre-defined airport itinerary, and indeed, at what point did my travelling maturity leave either, or both, of these tourist traits behind?

Notably however, I wonder if in all of this chaos it is just I that is panicking to find the socket to charge my blackberry, and if the last minute business is the real start of the non-business? So, flight called and ready to join the vacation nation, I wonder ....what is it that will really make the perfect holiday - tourist-topped up hand luggage packed with a giant sized duty-free Tobelerone or simply the will power to switch off my mobile phone?

‘Til next time, Pandora