There’s a certain kind of luxury that doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t need porcelain chandeliers the size of a small planet. It doesn’t tiptoe in either. It simply is – like a good late afternoon light.
For less than the price of an average dinner elsewhere, you could buy yourself a room that felt like a mood board. Like giving your day a small, easy upgrade.
Lesson learned: paradise is rarely polished. In fact, they seem to enjoy dismantling your expectations first, leaving you slightly off balance, before offering something far more interesting in return – full of quirks, surprises, interruptions, and that undeniable sense of “wow, this is exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”
Take El Nido, for example. Palawan. I could write a book about it, but I’d probably spend most of my time circling the point, kind of like when you try to explain why a really simple meal – on a sunny terrace with a bit of sea breeze – sticks with you longer than it probably should. I mean, I got married there, so that should tell you some idea of its persuasive qualities. It’s one of those islands you just… keep going back to. It grabs you by the heart and refuses to let go. I keep coming back, like some weird, loyal lover, drawn by those turquoise waters, limestone cliffs, and sunsets that basically belong in a painting or… a very, very good Instagram post.
Lesson learned: paradise is rarely flawless. In fact, they seem to enjoy dismantling your expectations first, leaving you slightly off balance, before offering something far more interesting in return – full of quirks, surprises, interruptions, and that undeniable feeling of “wow, this is exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”
Breakfast, in a way, is the truest confession of any hotel. A generous breakfast is never just food. It is a statement.
Then there are the opposite places. The tall, confident ones. Skyscraper hotels that scrape the clouds and declare their excellence in capital letters. Everything is perfect, or at least perfectly marketed as such. Their bed is the perfect bed, their minibar is the perfect minibar, their lobby is the perfect lobby. And me? I buy it. I sip the overpriced cocktails and I absolutely judge the pillows. I go along with the whole performance because, every now and then, it actually does deliver. I’ve always believed there is pleasure in excess when it is done in conviction. Even better when it is somewhat ridiculous.
There was a hotel I remember – an Art Deco building, beautifully restored. Someone, inevitably a person with time, taste, patience, and a healthy disregard for committee opinion, had taken the place and decided to give it a proper new life. I’ve always thought of it as heritage glamour, if you will, but with confidence, not costume. Old-world-charm-slash-hotel-we’re-not-trying-too-hard-but-of-course-we-are, except somehow it genuinely isn’t. The entrance was hidden in plain sight, if you walk past it twice, you feel a bit foolish, then clever when you finally find it. A small victory to begin the stay. Inside, the reception feels more like a boutique hotel than a big one. After that, the corridors twist and turn. Not quite a maze, but not quite one either. The kind of layout that encourages the idea of dropping a trail of breadcrumbs, just in case.
Rooms changed character depending on their mood: some intimate, some expansive, all finished in warm neutrals and wood tones. A free-standing bath tub, and even a discreet little TV, in case you felt like catching the news while soaking in a warm bath. Everything here conspires to make you relax. Someone, somewhere has already gone to the trouble of imagining what you might want before you’ve got quite around wanting it yourself.
And then, of course, breakfast. I love breakfast. I become someone else at breakfast. At home, I am disciplined: black coffee, Greek yoghurt, restraint. On holiday, discipline dissolves somewhere between the first toast and the realization that nobody is watching. Suddenly, it’s all very easy. Pastries that are clearly designed to test willpower. Eggs in every way imaginable. Juices promising to fix your life if you just drink enough of them. Bloody Marys to keep things from getting too virtuous. And then the health counter arrives: powders, seeds, and bowls of things I cannot pronounce but feel emotionally obliged to try. Moringa, acai, matcha, mushroom dusts promising clarity, energy, enlightenment, possibly a lighter soul. At one point, I am never sure whether I am building health or undoing it in a more elegant fashion.
You sit, you order, you take your time. You let the evening play out in whatever direction it wants to take you.
Sometimes, you can have your cake and eat it too. The trick is finding places that already understand you will.
These days, I choose hotels less for where they are and more for what they offer once you’re in. Two good restaurants are acceptable. Four suggest seriousness. More than that – plus a bar that understands mood, timing, lighting, and the slow drift of the evening – is Godsend. What’s for dinner tonight? Am I in the mood for something casual and comforting? Is there a grill situation? Or some avant-garde, dizzying menu with an emulsion where you’re not sure if it’s alchemy or haute cuisine? Maybe some Italian indulgence. With that big spoonful of tiramisu plopped onto your plate like you’ve nowhere else to go. And more importantly, a little bit of entertainment to follow. Does the bar have jazz, or at least the suggestion of jazz? Not too loud, not trying too hard.
Getting dressed without a real plan – just dinner, a drink, and a bit of atmosphere – has its own appeal. A sleek black dress, the pair of shoes you’ve always wanted to wear but couldn’t because they nearly kill your feet (but in this situation, this is the moment, no?), and that little flicker of delight as you head downstairs knowing you don’t need to be anywhere else. You sit, you order, you take your time. You let the evening play out in whatever direction it wants to take you. And when your energy dips – as it always does – you simply excuse yourself from the scene. No logistics, no long walk back to the car, no trying to book a driver, no hesitation. Just a lift ride back up, a corridor, maybe a last glance at the view outside your window, and then, that enormous, heavenly bed waiting exactly where you left it.
