Review: Hôtel Devillas 2**

27 May 2004 by Kirsten Guenther    839  
Review: Hôtel Devillas 2**
I have a confession to make. Please don’t freak out. Or call me names, but….I can sometimes be a little high maintenance. It’s not that I’m difficult to maintain. I just like things the way I like them and want things the way I want them. I prefer things clean, rather than dirty. And cloth napkins–are simply better for the environment. Some mistake this “self-awareness” or “self-knowing” for snobbery. But au contraire…I am not a snob. I just have a particular taste and tend to indulge it. Okay, so here it goes. The confession? I have never stayed at a hotel that has less than four stars. Well, that’s not entirely true. I once stayed at a three-star in the 7th, but they put me up in Lauren Bacall’s suite. So you can imagine how nervous I was when I received this week’s hotel assignment from my editor: Hôtel Devillas . Paris, 75005. Two stars. (!!!!!!!!!!) I packed the bottle of 409 I had shipped overseas and a roll of paper towels in my bag. I mean, who knew what kind of conditions I’d be camping in? Located between Gare d’Austerlitz and the Saint-Marcel métro (lines 5 & 10), across the street from Hôpital La Pitié, and half a block up from Jardin des Plantes, where one can visit kangaroos and ostriches seven days a week, is the family-owned Hôtel Devillas. I enter through two sets of sliding glass doors. The floor is perfectly polished charcoal-black tiles. To my left is an area where brochures and maps are placed, carefully and magically arranged so that they don’t look tacky. On either side of me are identical sitting areas that look out onto the street. Reddish-brown leather chairs surround a small table that holds an ashtray and an elegant dish containing potpourri. There is a soda machine hidden against the wall. I approach the tall reception desk, where I am greeted with the warmest smile. Dressed in a trendy white and brown striped button-up shirt and brown tie, the young man introduces himself and gives me the key to my room, 602.I step into the newly renovated elevator, which has a glass case filled with information about the hotel and events going on in Paris, just in case I get bored on my way up to the 6th floor. I now know what I’m doing in Paris next week.I step out of the elevator onto the hardwood floors of the hallway. Hardwood?! Magnificent! Finally, someone who understands that carpet is not sanitary when you have hundreds of people trekking back and forth daily. Unless the rugs are being shampooed on a daily basis, my shoes stay on at all time while in the hotel room. These hardwood floors are a beautiful light wood that, along with the sunrays coming in through the window by the elevator and the newly painted walls, makes the space feels very large.My room is at the end of the hallway. I hold my breath as I put in my key card. I unlock the door. Everything is just right. Exactly how it should be. And clearly designed by a woman. Hardwood floors, to-the-floor green and gold floral draperies guarding a view of the hospital across the street, “Doctor, Doctor…” (wink). A balcony with iron railings for resting breakfast on in the morning. The furniture is all dark polished wood. Not a scratch on it anywhere. My favorite piece is the vanity across from the bed, where I’ll put my make-up on in the morning, and sit on the charming little stool that will bring me to the perfect height. And the incredible flood of natural light will (unfortunately) allow me to examine myself in the mirror accurately. But at least my makeup will be put on right, for once.There is so much storage space—I can put everything away in a particular place so that the room looks as neat as when I entered it. A tall armoire that I can fill with my coats. A shoe cubby to its left. Drawers in the night stands and a place to rest my suitcase, under which I can store my computer.A safe, adjustable heat, air conditioning, WiFi access and cable television. I’m in heaven. I open the door to the charcoal-tiled bathroom to reveal a bath and a shower (many hotel rooms in Paris only have showers), a white pedestal sink and beaucoup, beaucoup towels. The window to my left brings in more natural light and a charming view of a courtyard and the balconies overflowing with flowers on the building next door. There are sachets of shampoo and conditioner and several bars of soap arranged neatly on a shelf above the toilet. Oh! And the in the bath the shower head can either be American, and remain stationary above one’s head, or it can be removed for a European shower or bath.I touch up my make-up–I didn’t really need anymore lip gloss but I wanted an excuse to sit at the vanity for a few minutes, before meeting the hotel manager for a coffee in the hotel bar. The bar is quaint and charming. Candle lit, there are only two tables and about five chairs, which allows for some peace and quiet. A television showing CNN at an appropriate volume rests on top a chest against the wall. The bar itself is a walnut-colored wood, carved in a tall, thin elegant shape. I sit at in one of the low, comfy leather chairs at the table, sipping my café crème (which is excellent, made with Italian espresso) and leafing through one of the many books available for the guests, while I wait for Yamile.When Yamile enters, it is apparent where the hotel gets its warmth and class. Her voice is light and friendly. She wears an elegant brown suit, and a pair of…
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By Kirsten Guenther