Even with the witty warnings of Jacob Tomsky in his excellent read ‘Heads in Beds’ I’ve always loved a hotel bathroom. I don’t care if they clean the glasses with furniture polish or pee into the cologne bottles of douche-bag travelers (you can’t unscrew a Tom Ford bottle even if you try), I can suspend the realities of what monstrous dirtiness goes on there with the pristine appearance of sterility and cleanliness. And no matter how gross any hotel bathroom might seem, it’s really nothing compared with some of the dumps I frequented in college, and some apartments that some friends still reside in.
For our recent stay at 70 Park Avenue, the bathroom was this heavenly slice of paradise looking out at the Empire State Building, and resplendent in bright tile, crisp marble, and C.O. Bigelow accoutrements. Some bathrooms get short shrift in hotels, particularly in New York, but this one was a long, lean, beauty-enhancing machine.
When you get into a hotel room, you lock the door, and you know there is a secrecy, there is a luxury, there is fantasy. There is comfort. There is reassurance. ~ Diane von Furstenberg
