For a twenty-five-year-old who lives on a farm in the middle of America, I’ve been to an absurd number of palaces and opulent places. The Winter Palace in Luxor will always be my favorite, but the Palace Hotel in San Francisco is wonderful. More beautiful than the Drake and the Chateau Marmont, but it lacks the Chateau’s enchanting intimacy.
The Palace is a landmark of beauty and grace and the hallway that goes through the main level is more attractive than any room in the White House. Not kidding. Look!
The White House looks like an exhibit at EPCOT.
So, as soon as we woke up and removed ourselves from that demonic bunkbed, we packed our beds and fled. We had a delicious lunch at Noodles & Company (don’t judge me; I love that chain!) and then checked in early. The concierge remembered me from the other day, that’s elegance, and checked me in without bothering for my name.
Our room was on the sixth floor looking down at Market Street, and I was intensely pleased. The ceilings were easily fifteen feet tall. The shower had three heads. There was a television that worked. There was a corkscrew. Two queen beds were covered with intensely soft sheets. There were a dozen pillows per person. All of the lights worked. The carpet was so plush that you sank into it! The walls were painted a calming blue. It was perfect. PERFECTION.
After reveling in our move up in the world, we headed out for the Foreign Legion museum. We went straight to the café, of course, for a delicious piece of quiche and a salad. It was also perfection. In fact, the day was perfection.
The museum is small, but it contains a nice collection of Rodin sculptures (a rather large number, actually) and a variety of European paintings.
There were even a few nice Impressionism pieces. I loved seeing Caillebotte’s painting “Sunflowers Along the Seine.”
There was even an example of Flemish still life, and you know how absurdly I enjoy that. There was a very, very, very collection of Egyptian antiquities, but the collection could contain one piece and I would still be absolutely enthralled.
Back in town, we decided to bring dinner to the hotel since we couldn’t find the room service menu anywhere — a true travesty. Jessica wanted to try Chipotle, so she did, and didn’t care for it.
When I went out, I picked up a salad at La Boulange, a croissant, and then a new shirt and hair dye at Target. It is probably an excellent thing that I don’t live in a city. I’d spend everything.
The salad was fabulous, and so was my hair after we dyed it.
It’s had these weird blonde sections that I don’t understand where they came from. My hair seems to be lightening rapidly; I’m only glad it isn’t grey, yet. Still, when hair dye exists, why not use it? As the great Dolly Parton said, “God didn’t make plastic surgeons so they could starve!” Jessica was impressed by my enhanced beauty and decided that she wanted to copy me and dye her hair, too.
So we went out for ice cream sundaes and hair dye and then squealed in delight at a show called, Living With the Enemy, about a larger woman who was sent to live with a diet fanatic for a week. We passed out before it was finished, so I’ll never know what happened to them.