In my recent trip to New York, I stayed at the Trump Hotel.
I almost feel I could leave it at that. The name Trump is so culturally fraught. But let’s dive in. This is the story of one man, one brand, and the eponymous hotel.
You arrive at night. Throw your stuff on a chair. My stuff included a durable Louis Vuitton Monogram Vernis, the ultimate Sturdy Bag, as well as a Bompard scarf.
Yes, that’s a chandelier. Proof.
Look out the window. Columbus Circle is gearing up for Christmas.
Take the measure of your rooms, for they are plural. The bedroom. Assume the mirrored closet door is a clue. You’re right. Who would want to lie in bed faced with a full-length mirrored view of themselves? Masters of the Universe, that’s who.
Throw open the doors to a small bath. Which struck me as rather Marriott-like, all marbled-up. I guess Masters of the Universe don’t spend a lot of time washing?
The towels were shelved so high that I pulled one out of its stack only to knock another right into the full tub. Oops.
Wait. What’s this? A kitchen? A trophy kitchen, to be precise.
Larger than most New York apartments. Certainly sleeker. I availed myself of the convenience and went to Whole Foods across the street to buy my dinner the first night. The shiniest Whole Foods I’ve ever seen. I guess you can buy a Le Creuset stockpot and escalator down for just the right Walla Walla onions?
I imagine in Trump’s world the kitchen gets used by, well, someone else.
The entire space is like the bow of the Titanic. You are Jack, shouting, “I’m the King of the World!”
With the sheer curtains closed, some mystery remains.
But open up, and reflective surfaces celebrate your achievement.
Wake up for sunrise, the hotel tells you. The early bird catches a very shiny worm.
You guys, there’s nowhere quite like Manhattan. The sky’s the literal limit.
And, apparently, no one quite like the Donald. Although I don’t agree with his politics, I confess I’ve enjoyed his persona ever since the first Apprentice. He’s the Don King of business. The time-honored American tradition of the barker on the boardwalk, the fast talker, the salesguy. “Come on in!”
Even so, I might not have wanted to have his head and shoulders watch me approach a bottle of water. Trump Ice, indeed. Small quibbles.
The jellyfish was allowed to float his own meaning, albeit encased in yet another reflective surface.
*Donald didn’t pay me for this. Just writing that sentence makes me laugh. I will also most point that my company didn’t fully fund my stay either. I wouldn’t be as extravagant with company funds as I am with my own.