04/10/2024
A Tall ( but all too true) Tale
Many years back, I was in lovely Londontown to conduct a few hotel inspections.
As I was in the St Jamesā larea and ādressed and pressedā I decided to drop in and introduce myself at the Ritz. It turned out that the manager, Umberto, knew my then FIL who is a lovely man.
Umberto and I instantly hit it off and I sure that I made him feel sorry for me with my terrible attempts at Italian. Nevertheless the bonded over my Italian dog, Sofia Loren, Dante Alegeri and Florentine food. It was then that Umberto offered me to stay the night at the Ritz when I returned from my onward journey to Rome and Florence, so I could properly experience the property before I hopped on a plane back to NYC
I went to Italy and saw more properties, made more lovely industry friends, and found some AMAZING Murano pieces at a favorite little market ( no, I only share this hidden gem with paying clients š) In Florence, I bought Umberto some of his favorite foods and I loaded up on paper goods and books for myself and my daughters.
Because of all this mad shopping, I had to buy two ugly plastic multicolored bags that you see at airports and bus stationsā¦ you know the really tragic onesā¦.
Then I fly from Florence to London, and hop on the express train where Umberto promised there would be a driver for me so that I could report and write about the transfer experience. Well, the car and driver were there, but they werenāt any driver and car- oh, no, my driver was in full livery uniform with a Rills Royce Phantom!t
There I am coiffed and well dressed (Iām going to the Ritz after all), but Iām huffing and puffing with my Italian loot! And, much like Marleyās ghost, I am dragging the chains of my Italian excesses only they arenāt chains they are the now the slightly ratty plastic bags which instead of clanging, are shredding ( Murano fans - the lights were safe in layers of Italian newspaper) No worries, I decide, this is funny, quite ironic, and nobody knows me, so I hop in my modern day Cinderella carriage.
However, fate, the gods of Italian bargain shopping, karma or perhaps a past life were not quite done with me yetā¦.,
As we pulled up to the Ritz London, the original Ritz, the Putting on the Ritz, Ritz. Yes, THAT one. I see a gaggle of people, civilians and paparazzi, at the corner with cell phones poised, clearly waiting for someone famous. They took one look at our car slowly and purposefully rolling to the side entrance with the gravitas that only a rolls Royce can muster, and they all start heading to the car. āOh, p**p š©!ā ( or something in that general sentiment) I thought. Boy are THEY going to be disappointed. So I waited to get out of the car hoping they or I would suddenly disappear.
The driver then came round to get me and people collectively got closer together and closer to the car. Oh āp**pty pop on a mountain of p**p š©ā thought I. I hope they are waiting for some old dusty royal fart so the disappointment wonāt be too bad- for then or for me.
I ginally was coaxed out by my driver to a chorus of āwhoās that!?! Sheās not famous!!!!ā and then, just when I thought I couldnāt get more Fellinesque, the plastic bags came out and there was a LITERAL collective sigh of great disappointment from the crowd. Not only was I not famous, or not important, but the bags completely shattered the illusion that you had to have money to stay at the Ritz!!
Poor Umberto! Luckily he and the staff found the whole thing hysterical and I was promptly given a glass of champagne.
If youād like to hear the rest of my pretty fab Cinderella story, please let me know in the comments.
Picture of me with Umberto today in NYC. Yes, he still speaks to me. Yes, Iām tall, especially for Italian š®š¹ standards š No, I will never live that day down š
