On Topic: Why hotels are cool

I've always imagined it would be grand, as they used to say, to live in a hotel, that combination of residential and commercial real estate. Like Nick and Nora Charles of “The Thin Man” movies of the 1930s, we'd spend our evenings tossing about witty banter, and housekeeping could clean up in the mornings.

Nora: “Nicky, you asleep?”

Nick: “Yes!”

Nora: “Good. I want to talk with you.”

In my traveling days, for vacation and work, there've been a few hotels I've chosen more than once. Over time, they've become familiar, like home.

One large hotel on Eighth Avenue in Manhattan used to stand in a slightly frowzy but still pleasant neighborhood of mom-and-pop delis. I'd stay there on my frequent trips to New York because I came to know its lobby and adjacent café, even the patterns on the elevator walls.

But as the Disney-fication of 42nd Street pushed the crackheads and porn shops west and south, a lot of that flotsam - and its accompanying late-night scariness - washed up along that hotel's sidewalks.

In Montréal, I'd try to get a room in Chateau Versailles, on rue Sherbrooke. Its elegant name contrasts with its tiny rooms - the hotel, after all, is merely two squat buildings squooshed together.

But the staff was warm and charming, and the pinkish rooms, though indeed small, are bright and adorned with gently used furnishings.

And, of course, it has memories: I and the other guests once were trapped inside during a massive blizzard that transformed the streets into alarming plains of ice.

And the first time I went to Montréal with my wife, we got caught up in the 1993 Stanley Cup riots - our cab was rocked by frenzied Canadien fanatics, on their way to smash shop windows along rue Sainte-Catherine. We've always wondered how the fans would've reacted if their team had lost.

For our first few vacations to Paris, we stayed in le Grande Hotel Leveque, in the seventh district - another overly-fancy named venue. It boasted a paltry heating system, and the front desk was commandeered by Madame, who entered into no effort whatsoever to speak English.

An impossibly narrow elevator was installed at some stage. Lisa would ride up to our room first, then send the elevator back down to the lobby, where I would toss in our luggage, direct the car back up, then run up the stairs to meet it.

We found the whole experience charming.

But then “Europe Through the Backdoor” author and PBS TV personality Rick Steves “discovered” le Grand Hotel Leveque.

The ensuing fame resulted in its being bought by Americans, who in turn replaced Madame with grumpy students whose school-taught English generally was far worse than my French-movie-inspired French.

The place became an American hangout. And while we have nothing against Americans - some of our best friends are Americans - if we'd wanted to spend time with them, we'd have vacationed in Indiana.

The new owners probably even added working heating ….

But the hotel that comes closest to being permanently locked in my memory vault is the Shepheard Hotel in Cairo, Egypt. I was there for almost a month, writing press releases and arranging interviews for a touring Ohio-based ballet company.

The Shepheard Hotel, the place to be, apparently, when it first opened in 1841, sits along the Nile and is only blocks from Tahrir Square - yes, that Tahrir Square. It's a colossal edifice, with impossibly high, ornate ceilings and endless halls in which I got lost daily.

In daytime squads of soldiers patrolled out front, and noisy, festive wedding parties danced through its massive lobby at night.

Best of all, though, was the hotel's long, dark bar. Little more than an afterthought to the vast main dining room, the bar wasn't well-stocked, and its tiny tables were lit by meager lamps that I suspect were left behind by the British Army when it was headquartered there during World War I.

What made it memorable were the windows. Almost floor to ceiling and running practically the expanse of the room, the glass let in diffused light that blended perfectly with customers' chatter.

Oh, and the workmen. Using only hammers and chisels rather than power tools, and often barefooted, they tap, tap, tapped away at the far wall of the dining room.

All day and well into the next morning, during meals and cocktail time - tap, tap, tap. My guess was that dragging out the duration of the project meant more workers could be employed, in a city with a phenomenally high unemployment rate.

For all I know, all these years later, those guys are still there.

Maybe someday I'll go back to find out.

Nora: “I read where you were shot five times in the tabloids.”

Nick: “It's not true. He didn't come anywhere near my tabloids.”