A Night at the Hotel Franklin D. Roosevelt

  Just off of the Champs-Elysées, tucked away between good restaurants and chic hair salons, so close to Man Ray, one of the hottest clubs in Paris, that you’ll hear the “thump, thump, thump” of the speakers on your nightly walk…you’ll find the Hotel Franklin D. Roosevelt. The train arrives at métro Franklin Roosevelt. I strategically boarded a middle car when getting onto the line 1, putting me in the perfect location for the “Sortie.” I like the Franklin Roosevelt station because when you get off the train there is only one “Sortie,” so you don’t have people banging into each other while they pretend to know where they’re going– pushing and shoving until they are close enough to actually read the sign, at which point they realize that this is not the exit they want and that the one that they are looking for is located at the opposite end of the quai. I reach the main entrance of the station and make a mental note of the 24-hour photo print place and the booth that takes passport photos–these miniature photographs are mandatory when one purchases a week or month métro pass. I arrive at the top of the métro stairs, right at the crosswalk that will take me to the other side of the Champs-Elysées, where I will make a left on rue Marbeuf. After a couple of more blocks on this street, passing expensive designer stores and unaffordable real estate, I reach my destination at 18, rue Clément-Marot. I pull open the understated double glass doors leading to the reception lobby of the Hôtel Franklin D. Roosevelt. The tail wind off a brand new black Mercedes blows my long denim skirt upwards, pushing me forward into a regal sitting area with high-back antique chairs in royal reds and greens sitting on top of rich, thick rugs. Everything is perfectly polished. The furniture looks old but brand new. I left my cigars at home. The room reminds me of the one on the 13th floor of my grandpa’s club in Los Angeles, where women still were not permitted until a few years ago. The chandelier provides a hazy glow from its collection of miniature lampshades attached to each arm of the chandelier. There is a tall wooden hutch against the far wall filled with what look like, but that I doubt are, actual antique figurines, perfectly placed between two matching wall lamps. Behind the sitting area is a bar, where three businessmen sit drinking Manhattans on the rocks while they peruse (as I conclude from the tassels on their shiny black loafers that go with the red tassels on the ceiling lights) a million-dollar contract. The bar is small, red and intimate, with its long red booths situated around tiny tables where the drinks barely fit. This is the perfect place to have a drink after a long day at the office or before a night at the theater. I approach the reception desk to my right, where a long-haired brunette wearing a white silk blouse and a pair of pearl earrings stands behind a tall wood counter. To my left there is a brochure holder advertising various tours and parks offered in Paris. My eye is attracted by the large mouse ears of Mickey on the cover of the Euro Disney brochure. Personally, I hate it when hotels display brochures like this in their lobby. I would prefer them to keep the information hidden behind the counter with the concierge’s “Recommended Restaurants” cheat sheet. There is a man carrying a used brown leather briefcase squinting over the wire rims of his specs, shopping the free brochures–he seems to find them helpful. Perhaps he is collecting them for his scrapbook. The receptionist is extremely pleasant while she begins my brief check-in process. I fill out a few forms and sign my name and she hands me the keys to room 27, a standard room with a queen-size bed. I examine my key, which is a strange pin-like device. “I guess I just stick it in the hole?” I ask her in French. She blushes and nods. I guess my translation was not so good. En route to the elevator I pass another sitting area where two men in button-up shirts without ties take their coffee. This room is more cozy than the first sitting area; there seems to be more light and some of the furniture even has flowers on it. A women sits in the corner in a high-back chair sipping tea while reading a book. The elevator is quite large for France and very, very clean and shiny. In fact, so far the entire hotel has been spotless–which is unusual for Paris, as the buildings aregenerally so old. But at this hotel there’s not a speck of dust anywhere. The elevator transports me safely to the second floor, where I catch a pair of maids in action. I step around their supply cart overflowing with soaps, shampoos, shower caps and toilet paper and locate my chambre just down the hall. I stare down at the large key chain shaped like a bell–it could be used as a paper weight. I take the circular pin thing and insert it in the “key” hole. It takes a few tries, but eventually the door opens. The Standard Room:There is a small entrance way lined with two closets covered in mirrors. I open the second closet to shed my coat. I pull on a hanger, but it won’t budge. Oh–it’s one of those hangers that is attached permanently to the closet rod. I hate those–I’m sorry, but if I can afford to pay 255 euros per night for a standard room, I can certainly afford my own set of hangers at home. The Bathroom:In order to reach the toilet paper, I have two choices: I can lean forward off the seat, reaching my right arm out for the scroll located approximately two arm lengths from the stool and risk tipping over head first onto the cold white tile floor, or I can scoot to the left and reach my arm all the way around the back, and pray that I don’t pull a muscle surrounding my lower spinal area. There are two sets of towels with the FDR Hotel embroidered on the front. They feel…