Pillow Talk

February 16, 2008

Photo:Flickr/GMacorig

I used to take my pillow with me everywhere I had at least an overnight stay. It has been a requirement ever since I slipped a disc in my neck, whilst being a tad over-zealous with my weight-training, over 20 years ago. Then – I’m sure, as a re-action to my obsession with filling-in hotel ‘any improvements you would like to see’ cards - things changed. Now there are choices of pillow, and if you are very lucky, you will have a ‘pillow menu’. Oh joy!

So, pillow-less, husband and I flew over to Rome and boarded the – “are we really going that fast?” – Eurostar, to start our holiday in Florence. We were staying at the Lungarno Hotel - in Oltrarno West - known for its suburb position on the river Arno, and for its close proximity to the - rather rickety-looking, I thought - Ponte Vecchio.

The room was small, but smartly-dressed in navy and white, and the bed was lovely and comfy. All looked good so far. “Must try the pillows,” I declared. Splosh! It felt like I had jumped in a swimming pool at the deep end, my head had sunk and I was surrounded by pillow. “Oh blast,” I mumbled, with a face full of feathers, “we’ll go to reception and get it changed.”

At said reception, disappointment set in, after a negative reply from the smartly dressed, but rather distracted male receptionist; suffice to say, there was no choice. Who needs a good-nights sleep anyway?

The ‘pillow problem’ had a consequence, as we didn’t really enjoy Florence. We weren’t happy with the way restaurants automatically charged for cover and bread, it made eating out expensive. In fact, we thought everything was over-priced.

Three days in Florence being more than enough for us, and feeling even more tired than when we arrived – no thanks to the Lungarno’s pillow policy – we had just a 5 minute ride to the station in our bright-yellow taxi, which was a shame. The driver - who sounded more English than we did - decided to serenade us in Italian. How nice.

We were heading off to Rome, in search of a good nights sleep.

The Eurostar to Rome was packed with suited-and-booted Italian execs, but by the time we had played the ‘spot the ripe-for-development Tuscan ruin,’ and listened to numerous Italian mobile phone conversations – very interesting at first, but the novelty quickly wears off – the hour and a half had flown by and we were there.

Being suckers for pillow punishment, we were staying in two different hotels for our 6 night stay in Rome; the Hotel Raffaelo in the city - very handy for excellent clothes shopping - and the Hilton Cavalieri, which, according to one Sunday newspaper supplement, is ‘one of the 10 best hotels in the world.’

We were in the attic at the ‘Raffaelo,’ which we didn’t mind, as we had our own large terrace, and were devoid of a long corridor - so no inconsiderate slamming doors. All good so far, but I remember saying that before! Deep joy this time, as my pillow is fab, nice and firm, just how I like it; I am grinning happily. Husband (with bad back), checks out the bed. “It’s a camp bed!” he cries, “The mattress is thinner than a wafer-thin mint”. I stop grinning and have a look, he’s right. We both look at each other, despondent. It’s too late in the day to do anything about it, so yet another sleepless night ensues.

M/F

We battle on though, as with the amount of fresh air – as fresh as it can be in the centre of Rome – and walking, during the day, and more walking and pasta and red wine at night, it’s not difficult to fall asleep.

We have high hopes of the ‘Cavalieri’, situated outside of the city, on a hill over-looking the whole of Rome and beyond, by now I don’t really care about the view, just the combination of a decent bed AND a pillow would be nice.

A rather decadent, super-king-size bed awaits us, it looks all plumped-up and expectant and we have five, yes five, pillows each. Yippee, the bed is the most comfortable yet; I expectantly try the pillows one-by-one. “Too soft,” the first one is on the floor, “Too soft,” number two follows it, “Too soft, oh this is ridiculous”. They are all on the floor. Helpful husband spots a ‘pillow menu’. “There’s a choice of ten”, he announces triumphantly. “There has got to be something on here”.

I call the housekeeper, and ask for something I can honestly say I haven’t asked for anywhere else, the ‘Buckwheat-husk pillow’. Listed as, ‘ideal for neck pain, used in ancient Egypt and by the Chinese for relaxation’. It certainly didn’t relax me; it had all the comfort of a brick. “Sorry”, I say to Senora housekeeper, “Can I have ‘pure-wool Merinos’ instead?” Described on the menu, simply, as ‘medium filling’. I could have plumped for ‘Herbal,’ pleasantly described as, ‘A mix of vegetable fibres releasing a light fragrance of freshly cut grass,’ which would have been interesting to say the least.

I opened the door for the second time, and there, stood holding ‘pure-wool Merinos,’ was a Zulu warrior in Hilton uniform. He must have been seven foot tall, with the all the proportions of a garden rake, and if the corridor hadn’t had sufficient lighting, I wouldn’t have seen him. “This should be fine,” I said quickly, grabbing the pillow. He didn’t say anything; he just smiled a gleaming-white ‘colgate’ smile, manoeuvred his rather large feet into position, and ambled slowly into the distance.

Husband and I wouldn’t put the ‘Cavaliere’ in the ‘Top 10 Hotels’ bracket, the food was average for the – extortionate – price and the service was hit-and-miss. However, the view over the Roman Hills is stunning, the bed is comfortable, and there are ten choices of pillow.

About the author : Karen Harris-Wakenshaw is a travel realist and observer of all things comfortable, she enjoys writing, and wishes she could do more. www.travelwritersreviews.com