I stayed one night, one time at an exquisite bed and breakfast in the French Alps. It wasn’t grand, this place, more like minutely elegant. Everything was in a kind of ancient order of simple perfection. There were only a very few rooms and so just a few other guests, all either French or British, and all very carefully and expensively dressed. The night we arrived, we were just in time for dinner and were served six courses of the kind of food I had previously only seen in magazines. I was careful not to touch a piece of silverware, a glass or even a napkin until my companion touched his, having absolutely no idea what to do with that much cutlery.
The room, when I finally got to explore it, was like a bedroom from one of the Victorian novels I love so much. Cloth wallpaper, antique furniture. And just in front of the bed, where you normally find a television, was a window that opened out to the Alps. It was a dream, an excursion into a whole other stratosphere of wealth and comfort. Until I went to bed. Turns out the queen size bed was a fake, it was actually just two double beds shoved together, meaning there was a gap in the center. To make matters worse, the fitted sheet trying to breach the gap couldn’t handle the job and so I ended up sleeping on a bare mattress. And, on top of all of that, the beautiful lace comforter was nowhere near warm enough. My one night, then, in the most precious place I’ll likely ever stay in my life was mostly spent awake, cold and not so very comfortable.
Here at this little hotel we do not offer views of the Alps out of our bedroom windows. Our food is laid out buffet style in the morning, and then again in the evening. Your fellow guests will just as likely be wandering around in sweatpants and flip-flops. But our beds are insanely comfortable with plush pillow top mattresses, too many pillows and luxurious down comforters. There’s really no comparison.