Ultratravel U.S.

Fall 2015

Issue link: http://www.ultratravelusdigital.com/i/587160

Contents of this Issue

Navigation

Page 39 of 75

38 ultratravel M y mother had absolutely made up her mind that she did not need to replace her expired passport. "I'm not going anywhere–ever again," she said defiantly. I took no notice, renewed the passport and booked a secret trip to Paris to prove a point. She was very cross with me when she found out, declaring that she had not "packed properly." She reminded me of her great Aunt, who went to the smartest fashion house in London to buy a wardrobe of clothes, in order to go to Paris to buy clothes. We arrived, just the two of us, and no pesky children. We stayed in La Réserve, which used to be Monsieur Pierre Cardin's private home, recently refurbished into a small, discreet hotel. There was no reception: we were simply whisked directly to our room, where homemade marshmallows waited in glass jars (I was confused by that bit, too). My mother was even more confused by the butler who appeared in her room to help unpack–the butler was an attractive middle-aged woman, not an elderly man in livery, with a fleet of footmen following. I spent a lot of time on the loo, it was such fun. The seat cover silently sprung up invitingly whenever you approached, and it was heated. There was a control panel worthy of a NASA space craft, with lots of options, some more alarming than others: Pulse, Massage, Position, Front, Rear. I had forgotten how seriously the French take their toilettes. The hotel was certainly not 5 stars–it was more like 500 stars. Every possible detail had been thought of: it didn't matter if you had not packed a European charger, the desk offered a Smörgåsbord of options and there was a special handle bar-thing in my mother's cupboard that we looked at for a long time, until we realized it pulled the clothes rail down so that any one who happened to be in a wheel chair could hang their shirts effortlessly. The mirrors in the bedrooms and marble bathrooms turned into TVs, and the French windows opened seductively onto tiny terraces where the whole of Paris spilled out below you. The library really was a library, bookcase after bookcase where elderly gentleman would turn crossly in their emerald green brocade tufted armchairs to stare pointedly at me when I gossiped too loudly with my mother. In the bar I was surprised I didn't find James Bond dressed in black tie ordering a Martini (shaken, not stirred), since the Parisian women who sat there sophisticated and smoldering certainly looked like they were waiting for him. My mother and I dined alone in the formal dinning room. "Alors!" said the maître d' with a flourish, as a micro mushroom burger with a foie gras filling was placed before us unannounced. The poor waiter was appalled when we tried to reorganize the menu: "Could we not have the fresh almonds on the lobster, and could the white peaches just be on the side?" We confirmed everything he suspected about the British abroad. "They've mucked up the soufflé," my mother whispered. "Why would they put cold sorbet in the middle of it?" I swam in the mornings in their pool, surrounded by sand stone pillars, clever flickering candles that weren't really candles and luxurious cream silk curtains that were pulled closed to give you complete privacy. Did I need privacy? Maybe they thought I was swimming naked. Maybe the French only swim naked? On the day we left my telephone rang, waking me up. Annoyed, I answered it. "Zis is your wake up call," the voice said. "What wake up call?" I asked, looking at my watch. "I don't need to be awake for another hour," I said. "Oh paarrrrdon, but your mother wanted to make sure you would be ready to leave on time." On the train home I complained. "I really am a grown up now, I can manage my own time," I told my mother. "Well I can't change my role just because you happen to be 48 years old," she replied firmly, turning back to the window to watch the French countryside fly past. India Hicks and her mother spend a weekend in the lap of luxury at La Réserve Paris Hotel and Spa. SOME LIKE IT HAUTE Designer, author and entrepreneur India Hicks visits La Réserve, the former home of Pierre Cardin, in Paris. Travel Diary COURTESY OF LA RÉSERVE; INDIA HICKS

Articles in this issue

Archives of this issue

view archives of Ultratravel U.S. - Fall 2015