Few would argue, when you’re sick, the only place you want to be is home in your own bed. But if you’re stuck a continent away, as I was in Europe with the stomach flu, there is one place that’s the next best thing to being home. The Hotel D’Angleterre in Geneva, Switzerland. It’s part of the small leading luxury hotels of the world situated on the shore of Lake Geneva with stunning views of the Jet d'Eau and Alps.
I’d just finished trekking the Tour du Mont Blanc, a ten-day trek through the Alps of Switzerland, Italy, Germany, and France. I was not only physically spent from what would have been grueling under healthy circumstances but I’d caught a nasty stomach bug towards the end of the trek. My innards were wrung out. It was all I could do to make the train ride from Chamonix, France to Geneva, catch a cab and collapse on my hotel bed without hurling en route.
I had one night in Geneva before returning home to Los Angeles. I had envisioned taking advantage of the hotel’s close proximity to what had been touted as the best shopping in Geneva. I would venture no further than the lobby during my stay. It isn’t often you stay at a hotel and actually stay put.
Built in 1872, the hotel maintains its historic Swiss regal tradition while embracing all the technology a savvy business traveler demands—high speed wireless Internet and five-star service. My suite was comfy and inviting with impeccable attention to detail. The linens and wall coverings were gorgeously appointed, the way I’d hire a decorator to do my own room if I could afford an interior designer.
They’d emailed me a questionnaire before I left home asking a series of questions such as duvet and pillow preference—even my favorite color (red). My room was red all right, floor to ceiling, but not nauseatingly so. (Believe me, in my condition, I would know.) The suite included a small living area with coffee table books on the history of the area. I picked up a few and went into the bathroom where I would spend most of the next twenty-four hours.
I drew my bathwater in the oversized spa tub and climbed in. The bathroom was spacious and beautiful enough to have been lifted from the pages of Architectural Digest magazine. I’m a toiletries snob, so I was impressed to see deluxe size Penhaligon's toiletries and floating votive candles for the bath.
My aching muscles that had canvassed four countries in the past ten days melted in the hot steam. I flipped through the coffee table books trying not to get the pages wet, sipped my sparkling water, and moaned and groaned in agony. It was a blissful misery. My stomach and intestines hurt, I had zero energy, but I was content in my surroundings. A Mecca if you will for the stomach flu. Fluffy robes, plenty of towels (including a towel warmer), a separate shower with steam, and plenty of chilled mineral water.
The bathroom was also appointed with a bidet. I spent an hour staring across the room trying to envision how one is used. I mean, I know it’s intended to clean privates but I never knew how exactly you’re supposed to use one. I can halfway understand using one in the privacy of your own home but I’ve seen them in public bathrooms in Europe too and couldn’t imagine using one there.
I figure you’d have to take your pants off completely in order to straddle the thing. What if the spray of water missed and hit your shirt or soaked your socks? The hotel TV had a tutorial on how to use the TV, why didn’t it include one on how to use the bidet? Surely Europeans must hand down that information from generation to generation. There was a lot to ponder during my almost two-hour bath. I only got out when my fingers had completely pruned.
