I am 36, not six. Nevertheless, I arrive in New York with my favorite book, Eloise, packed carefully in my hand luggage. At the airport I hail a taxi, shove my bags in the back and ask the driver to take me to the Plaza Hotel. Talk about exciting.
Eloise, for anyone who has not had the good fortune to encounter her, is a fictitious six-year-old girl who lives at the Plaza. In the books by Kay Thompson, Eloise’s mother is conspicuously absent (“she knows Coco Chanel”), her nanny permanently exhausted (“Nanny gets up feeling tired, tired, tired”), and Eloise spends her days terrorizing the long-suffering hotel staff (“I am a nuisance in the lobby”).
The backdrop to her campaign of chaos is the Plaza itself, arguably the book’s other main character
The backdrop to her campaign of chaos is the Plaza itself, which is arguably the other main character in the book. I remember marveling at the hotel just as much as at Eloise’s antics within it. She takes us with her from the marble-pillared lobby and the revolving door emblazoned with two elegant Ps, through the endless corridors, on into the baroque ballrooms festooned with decadent chandeliers and draped curtains, and then, joyously, into her own bedroom which is always a complete tip.
And now here I am, in that very lobby, having just passed through the revolving door with PP on it.
Fans of the book will not be disappointed by the Plaza’s commitment to Eloise’s story. In the Palm Court, a large portrait of Eloise (along with her companions Weenie, the dog “who looks like a cat” and Skipperdee, her pet turtle) greets visitors with her familiar, mischievous stare. Nearby is a pink postbox where guests can send a letter to Eloise and expect, rather wonderfully, to receive a reply. The hotel shop is lavishly stocked with Eloise merchandise, including pictures, teapots and sweet little dresses. I find a book I’d somehow never come across before: Eloise Takes a Bawth – in which she manages, naturally, to flood the entire hotel. My room is not quite on the tippy-top floor, but it does have an absolutely enormous “bawth” that comes complete with bright pink bath salts.
For dedicated fans of the book, the hotel even offers an Eloise suite, decorated in the iconic pink, red and black palette of the original illustrations by Hilary Knight. There is an adjoining suite next door for Nanny or, if they really must come, parents. Amateur Eloises, meanwhile, can indulge their inner brat by ordering room service like their heroine. Cucumber sandwiches, root beer and cotton candy are all on offer. Nobody will be surprised to hear that, in this era of eternal childhood, the suite is just as popular with adults as it is with children.
Does anyone actually live in the hotel? I ask a friendly member of staff. Well, yes, as it happens. The Plaza has 282 hotel rooms and an astonishing 181 private residences, located on the north and east sides, overlooking Central Park. Oh, to know more about these ultra-high-net-worth Eloises. I am told they like “discretion,” which does suggest some of them might be up to no good. But have they ever poured a bucket of water down the mail chute?
I try to see as much of the hotel as I can. And it is true, as Eloise tells us, that there are absolutely nothing but rooms in the Plaza. Like her, I whizz up and down in the elevator, then slink along the corridors, admiring guests in their finery as they glide in and out of the hotel. I order a lobster roll to my room and try to sound convincing when I ask the man on the phone to “charge it, please.”
Then I’m out in the city myself. Later, with two good friends, I swing by Bemelmans Bar, the famous cocktail lounge which features murals by Ludwig Bemelmans. It is a chance to pay homage to his creation Madeline, another beloved childhood character. She is to Paris what Eloise is to New York. It is a shame that London doesn’t really have such an icon. The best the city can offer is Mary Poppins, but there is no doubt she would prefer the company of Nanny and Miss Clavel.
Breakfast the next morning is oatmeal and coffee which is hot, hot, hot, as Nanny might say. And as we know from Eloise, you have to eat oatmeal or you’ll dry up. In the Palm Court, I overhear a thoughtful member of staff explaining the story to some children, who have yet to encounter Eloise. They all stare up at her portrait. Do write, the waitress says. She’d love it.
From the Palm Court, I write a letter to Eloise and ask if she might reply to my daughter, Lily, who lives in London and will soon be six. When I’m back home, we read Eloise Takes a Bawth together at bedtime. “Eloise is so naughty,” Lily says. “And does she really live in a hotel?” She does, I say. Can you imagine?
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