The Luxury London hotel built on a Fantastic Fib

This tourism tale is a ripper. And it’s built around a fictitious hotelier and 1920s architecture that Londoners are lapping up. In December, I headed to the English capital to unveil this lavish lie..

THE iconic ruby red British Beefeater gin guy is perched above the bar in which international accents are twirling around the room like Turkish dervish dancers. In one dark, moody corner, Americans are gushing about film making. The woman plonked behind me is all blustery and British, collapsing into a comfy chair with bags of designer shopping, immediately, and predictably, ordering a pot of English Breakfast tea. Around me, the walls are papered with black and white shots of screen starlets while above, a sparkling chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

I am in The American Bar of London’s Beaumont Hotel, perusing the cocktail menu. There’s the aspirational Aviation – a concoction of Bombay Saffire gin, maraschimo crème de violette and lemon juice; the comical Corpse Reviver No 2 – gin, contreau, lillet blanc, lemon juice and absinthe; or the jaunty Jimmy’s Collins, made of Finlandia vodka, lemon juice, sugar and soda.
But who the hell is Jimmy?

According to legend, Jimmy Beaumont was a famous hotelier in the 1920s in New York, but strict prohibition laws in the United States made doing business difficult, so Beaumont moved to London where he opened this Mayfair establishment.
One on floor, there’s a portrait gallery of men in military uniforms which capture the friends of Beaumont who went off to war. Guests who visit, often recount how their grandmothers stayed here in the 1920s.
The only problem here: Jimmy Beaumont wasn’t real. He never existed. Nor was this hotel built in the 1920s. Yes, it’s one big, delicious lie.

Opened just three years ago, this elegant establishment, just a short walk from Oxford Street, was the former car park for London’s iconic department store Selfridges.
While the car park façade has been heritage-listed and retained, inside the bones have been completely demolished and rebuilt, re-opening at the Beaumont in September 2014.
What is real, however, is the style and soul this art-deco hotel has managed to capture.

Glance at the top left of the building from the outside and you’ll see a piece of grey, twisty artwork. Built in partnership with the City of Westminster which decreed inner London needed more public art, the Antony Gormley sculpture is actually a three-storey high hotel suite. Designed by acclaimed artist Antony Gormley, ROOM, is a dark, oak-clad suite which aims to capture the concept of night.
There are more than 500 pieces of art scattered around this hotel, some of which do date back to the 1920s.

Guests who stay here can be forgiven they’ve stepped back into the 1920s with a private Cub Room space for quiet breakfasts in the morning or evening cocktails; the American Bar which depicts a typical watering hole you would have found in London in the 1920s and specialises in Bourbons and American Whiskies; and 100-seater Colony Grill Room, which combines the concept of a London and New York diner back in the day.
Feast on the likes of Ayrshire 30-day dry aged Aberdeen Angus steak, or a New York hot dog if you please, and finish with a Knickerbocker Glory ice-cream sundae.
Tucked away downstairs, there’s a Turkish hamman, plunge pool, spa, sauna, gym, and hair salon, which offers an old-fashioned wet shave for gentlemen.

Inside the hotel’s 73 rooms, studios and suites, guests are treated to a complimentary mini bar, beautiful library books, Beaumont branded chocolates and more than 200 CDS of in-room entertainment, including New York lounge music to groove into the mood of a 1920s hotel.
The bathroom is all art-deco black and white tiled heated floors, plush Beaumont monogramed bath robes, lavender bath salts for relaxation and London’s Dr Harris & Co toiletries which date back to 1790.
For those with money to spare, consider booking the opulent Roosevelt Suite which can expand to occupy the hotel’s entire fifth floor and boasts five bedrooms and large terrace.

Guests are also presented with a list of extensive shopping discounts at exclusive stores where their purchases can be delivered back to the hotel.
Or they can take advantage of the Beaumont’s vintage Daimler vehicle, which is available for free use for drop-offs within the Mayfair area.
This five-star hotel, named Independent Hotel 2017, is the first for Chris Corbin & Jeremy King, acclaimed restaurateurs behind The Wolseley, The Delaunay, and a number of other leading eateries in the English capital.
Back in the American Bar, the fantastic fib is so believable, you almost expect Beaumont to wander in at any moment and order his eponymous cocktail.
And that’s what makes this establishment, and London lie, so damn delicious.

The Global Goddess stayed as a guest of The Beaumont London – https://www.thebeaumont.com

 


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Saluting the Anzacs

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HERE is my confession. I have never been to an ANZAC Day dawn service. I have been to numerous war sites around the world, I’ve played two-up with Diggers in my local RSL on ANZAC Day, and watched them march on the streets of Brisbane, but I have never risen before the sun to listen to the hauntingly beautiful Last Post, which honours our soldiers who have died in global conflicts.
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As a young backpacker, I followed in the footsteps of my peers and made the trek to Gallipoli to see where so many Aussie lives were lost on that impossible stretch of beach. I have stood in the trenches where they bled out and died. I remember the undeserved awe in which the Turkish regarded my pilgrimage, so astounded were they that so many young Australians would cross the oceans to honour their dead. I’ve visited the Egyptian pyramids from where the Aussies did some of their training in preparation for Turkey.
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I have knelt in the gas chambers of Dachau in Germany and Auschwitz in Poland and wept at the futility of war itself. I have scanned the piles of suitcases, teeth, hair combs, reading glasses and shoes, and tried to imagine how those captured by the Nazis endured their fate. Tried to fathom the stroke of dumb luck that makes one person survive a war and another perish. I have sauntered through Switzerland and marvelled at how a country so tiny, and in the midst of all the combating countries, could remain neutral.
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In London, I have stayed in the Savoy which miraculously only sustained minor damage during the bombings of World War Two, retained its stiff upper lip and kept trading, and from where Winston Churchill regularly took his Cabinet to lunch. It is believed Churchill made some of his most important decisions regarding the war from the Savoy, whose air-raid shelters were considered some of London’s toughest. And like so many Aussies, I have stood in the London Underground and tried to imagine its role as an air-raid shelter.
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I have sat on the shores of Pearl Harbour and imagined the Japanese fighter planes overhead. On the other side of Oahu, I have seen the beaches from where local Hawaiian kids fled when they saw the jets overhead, before racing inside and crowding with frightened family members around a simple transistor radio to try to understand what was happening to their peaceful paradise.
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In south-east Asia, I have witnessed the effects of war and the cruel regime of Pol Pot in Cambodia in the torture chambers of Phnom Penh and on the streets littered with the limbless in Siem Reap. I have visited the many war museums of Saigon in Vietnam and crawled through part of the Cu Chi Tunnels before becoming overcome with claustrophobia. In Thailand, I have visited the River Kwai many times, and walked along the railway sleepers, the construction of which claimed the lives of so many Australian soldiers. I have paused on the site of Singapore’s Changi Prison and attempted to feel what it must have been like to survive the heartless humidity and the chaos of capture.
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As recently as last month, I was up in Papua New Guinea where I learned that it was actually in Rabaul that the first Australian soldier lost their life in any global conflict back in 1914. There’s war history galore there and I walked into in one of the tunnels which the Japanese forced the Aussies, along with other Allied soldiers, to build so that the enemy could store their food, weapons and themselves during air raids. I visited the Bitapaka War Cemetery, funded by AusAID, which pays homage to thousands of soldiers, many of them Australians. There’s even a remaining tree there from which the Germans are said to have climbed to shoot at the Aussies during World War One.
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Thanks to the ANZACS, I’ve been granted the freedom to travel the world and to experience their stories. Because of them, I live in a free and beautiful country. On this ANZAC Day, and not just because it’s the 100th anniversary since the ANZACS tried to steal Gallipoli but because it’s high time, I intend to set my clock, rise before the kookaburras, and tip my hat in their honour and of all of those who have perished in war. Lest We Forget.
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Mamma Mia…Here I Go Again

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THE hour hand is nudging midnight when I eventually arrive at my Stockholm hotel and for the first time in weeks since I touched down in Europe, I find myself in a less than sparkling mood. In terms of travel days, it hasn’t been the easiest, but you’re bound to strike one of these when you’ve been on the road for several weeks, tackling different countries, airports, time zones and languages.
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It all starts while I’m still in London, where I mistake the British two pound coin for a fifty pence piece, and hence tip the driver the equivalent of $AUD8. He deposits me near Victoria Bus Station where I order a red wine and pizza before my trip to the airport. The colourful Italian feast arrives at the very moment a small child walking past suddenly violently vomits all over the footpath right alongside the outdoor café at which I am dining. Not only can my churning stomach not face the pizza, I fear I may never eat again. I watch in horror as other travellers drag their suitcases through the pavement Picasso.
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At the airport, the budget carrier on which I am travelling is supremely strict about the two kilograms extra weight my luggage is carrying (if only they knew how much lighter I was before my schnitzel and beer tour of Germany), and I am forced to creatively repack in front of an angry queue, who it seems is bemused by my cache of colourful comfy undies. Finally at the other end, the instructions I’ve been given for the bus from Stockholm airport to my hotel are incorrect – as I’ve arrived at a different airport – and after I’ve paid the insanely high taxi fare and refuse to tip the driver I alight from his cab, both of us cranky. As the driver flings my luggage onto the pavement, comfy undies threatening to spill everywhere, a strange Swede appears in the dark from absolutely nowhere, offering to buy me a glass of wine. For a brief moment I think it’s Gerhard, the gregarious German who popped up out of the blue in a Bremen lift a few weeks earlier, and who I will write about in next week’s blog about European men. And if only I’d known at this late hour there would be no food or wine in the entire hotel when I do check in, I might have said yes to the sleazy Swede’s offer. Heck, at this point if he’d possessed a stale bread roll, I would have married him.
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My pilgrimage to see the museum which pays homage to the best band to EVER strut the planet – ABBA – has not launched with quite the bang a boomerang I was expecting. I am feeling less Super Trouper and more Chiquitita. But after a dinner, which consists of the four chocolate marzipan love hearts my German friends have secretly hidden in my suitcase and a glass of tap water from the bathroom, I tell myself things will look better in the morning. And they do.
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Stockholm has turned on a dazzling day, 20 degrees, warm and sunny and I elect to sit atop a hop-on, hop-off bus to familiarise myself with this city in which I have just 24 hours. And I know one of the stops is at ABBA The Museum. I impatiently sit through 13 other destinations which outline the historical buildings for which this city is famous, my mind on Stop 14 and the real reason I find myself taking a side-step to Sweden. There was nothing to do growing up in 1970s country Queensland except listen to ABBA and my three sisters and me were virtual Dancing Queens. Such ABBA tragics are we, that one of my sisters still has the collector bubble gum ABBA cards, including a list of the ones she is missing, in the unlikely event she should meet a like-minded person who happens to possess the others, and this strange quirk should come up randomly in conversation. I was more of an end-of-the-skipping-rope singer, fighting with my best friend over who got to be the “blonde one”. My darker-haired bestie looked more like Frida, so it all worked out in the end, at least as far as I was concerned.
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And on this sunny Stockholm day I wish my best friend or sisters were here, as I discover ABBA The Museum is much more fun in a group, if the funky Frankfurters dressed as Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha and Frida are any indication. But I delight in watching them prancing and dancing and their European enthusiasm is infectious. I may only be a one-man band, but one of us is not lonely, and pretty soon I’m partaking in all of the interactive displays, including standing on stage and becoming the fifth member of the band. It’s not every day I fly to a country solely for the purpose of visiting a museum. The immigration officer at Stockholm Airport was incredulous when I told him my reason for visiting his country and demanded to see evidence of my return flight out of the Swedish capital. At one point I thought I might need to start singing Take A Chance On Me in order to enter the country, but he eventually understood my insanity. And the trip was worth every Kroner. I fly out to Berlin the next morning, the lyrics to The Winner Takes It All swirling around in my head, my Super Trouper ready to tackle the long flight back to Australia.
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The Global Goddess paid for her own flights to Stockholm and stayed at the comfortable Ibis Styles Stockholm Jarva – which does indeed have lovely food and wine if you arrive at a decent hour – on a media rate – http://www.ibis.com. She visited ABBA The Museum courtesy of the museum – http://www.abbathemuseum.com
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Life is Suite in London

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LONDON is in a jolly good mood and so am I. The sun is shining both literally and figuratively upon the English capital, which, judging by the number of cranes in the skyline and the smiling populous, is finally shrugging off the Global Financial Crisis and the last remnants of winter. And the sun is shining on me too, having just checked into Lancaster London, opposite Hyde Park.
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There’s even more cherries on the cake today, as I’m catching up with an old Singapore mate, an ex-Londoner and now Geneva-based Murray, who I haven’t seen in two years. We’ve got just 24 hours and Murray arrives in his trademark flurry of excitement into which I am instantly swept. I’ve been upgraded to the luxurious Lancaster Suite – used by the hotel’s Thai owner when he’s in town – and which peers down over Hyde Park. You can see London’s most famous green space from the cavernous lounge room, the spa bath and even the toilet, and the London Eye from my bed. So lovely is this room, it seems almost criminal to leave.
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And in a city probably better known for its pollution than being lean and green, this hotel is ardently eco-friendly, boasting a range of impressive environmental initiatives which include:
• A honey farm on the hotel’s roof, home to 500,000 bees which produces on average 80kg of Hyde Park honey every year
• E-brochures available to all guests in place of print collateral
• All bottled water on site is in reusable bottles, saving 12 tonnes of glass each year
• None of the hotel’s waste goes to landfill
• Salmon is smoked on site on an old plate warmer remodelled by the engineering department
• Old uniforms, bedding and soap are donated to The Passage, a local charity for the homeless
(And, on the week I arrive, a celebration of British tomatoes, in recognition that 4 in 5 tomatoes in the UK are imported – making it imperative that I try a Bloody Mary, in the name of research, of course).
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Like English aristocrats (well maybe one and a convict mate), Murray and me sip tea while we catch up on the past, plot fantasy-filled futures and plan our day ahead in the city in which I first arrived 20 years ago as a backpacker. But it was not the likes of Lancaster London for me back then, but the Oxford Street Youth Hotel, and I still get a buzz wandering along one of London’s best shopping streets all these years later, catching ghost-like glimpses of my younger self in the reflections of familiar buildings.
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Our Monopoly-board adventure continues down to Piccadilly Circus for lunch, Murray’s marathon legs 10 paces in front of me as I plead with him to slow down. It reminds me of our Singapore Sundays, where we’d meet and spend the day exploring the sticky city, jumping on random boats, searching for beaches, and like many expats I suspect, daring to dream of what we’d do next when we left south-east Asia. But it’s not Singapore but through Soho we trek this day, and on to Covent Garden, grabbing a bar and a beer just in time to escape a typical London downpour. Then we step off the board, and across the River Thames to amble along South Bank, check out the theatre listings, snatch another brew, fly through the Tate Modern, before heading back across the river towards St Paul’s Cathedral.
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The whole day we’re chatting, scheming, laughing and in my case, limping along, by now my dress boots proving unsuitable for the pace and length of London we are traversing. But on we march towards East London and Brick Lane for its famed Indian restaurants. We could do anything this Saturday night in one of the world’s most exciting capital cities, but after eight hours of walking, blistered feet and some weeks of travel for both of us, we concede defeat and head back to my suite.
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Like a comfortable old couple we lay on the couches, drink wine and watch the Chelsea Flower Show on TV before Murray falls asleep on his assigned couch and I retreat to the bedroom. A swift goodbye early the next morning and Murray is off to Geneva, the only evidence of his stay the scent of his cologne in the bathroom which lingers like a bittersweet moment. It’s both the curse and the blessing of the insatiable traveller, who gets to meet so many people around the globe, only to say goodbye to them again, not knowing when or where in the world we might meet in the future. Several hours later I, too, reluctantly leave my sweet suite and head to the airport, this time bound for Stockholm buoyed by old faces, old places and magnificent new memories. Till we meet again.
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The Global Goddess was a guest of Lancaster London. Lancaster London is a member of Summit Hotels & Resorts, a brand of Preferred Hotel Group. To write your own London adventure go to http://www.lancasterlondon.com

Let’s hear it for the Boys!

Pic by Mike Larder

Pic by Mike Larder


THE Global Goddess is not just about strong, smart, sexy and spiritual women, but ALSO the great men who love us. And love us, it seems they do. While women have primarily been purchasing Destination Desire – The Global Goddess, a single woman’s journey, the men in their lives have been stealing it to read. Then there’s those brave blokes who have contacted me directly for a copy, wanting to learn as much about the minds of women as they can. (Don’t ask me, we’re beautifully complicated!). The fellas have been flocking to buy this book, from as far away as Dubai, Geneva and France (thank you, eBook!), and closer to home all the way up the east coast of Australia to my beloved Brisbane. So I thought I’d ask the boys what they thought about my new book, and here’s what they had to say.
Pic by Ceda Larder

Pic by Ceda Larder


“I laughed that hard I didn’t know which to wipe first: my eyes or my…errr… nose. Hope Santa brings you something nice in his sack GG,” Mike, Yamba

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Destination Desire – The Global Goddess, a single woman’s journey opened my eyes to a different kind of travel. A more humanistic, emotional and raw way of travelling that only someone like The Goddess is able to do, yet something we should all try once in a while. As a gay man, this is the Sex and the City of my generation. Much respect to single women travellers. And for all you men hunting for a quick and easy holiday fling: be afraid. Be very afraid.” Peter, Sydney

TNT with GG DD book[1]
“Wherever The Global Goddess chooses to travel, I’m happy to come along for the ride. Female inspiration works for me. Male naked hungry travellers aren’t sexist,” Tom, Melbourne

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“Hey Christine! Love the book. It’s a hilarious and wild look at life after it’s rearranged – would recommend it to anyone!” Mitchell, Mt Tamborine

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“It’s a great read,” Gary, Gold Coast

Even from as far away as France, Gerard sent this pic (he said it was too cold to go outside).
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“Most travel narratives write a wishy-washy account, but The Global Goddess has no issues with telling in detail everything – from the scenic view to the sneaky peek at an attractive passer-by. If you’re looking for a woman with a great sense of humour, plenty of stories to tell, and isn’t afraid to talk about all types of topics (from wink-wink to heart-heavy), this is the book for you,” Gerard, France

But the final word belongs to these two fellas…
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“When we grow up, we want to meet a Goddess,” Max and Tom, Brisbane

Thank you to everyone for supporting The Global Goddess this year. And what a year it’s been! I’m taking a few days off (stalking blokes is exhausting), but will be back bolder and brighter in early 2014. I have some exciting plans ahead for the Goddess, so please continue with me on this journey. Wishing you and yours a magical season, filled with love, of course.
Destination Desire – The Global Goddess, a single woman’s journey is available as an eBook via Amazon for $4.99 or a limited-edition hard copy for $14.99 (plus postage and handling) from The Goddess herself at Christine.retschlag@theglobalgoddess.com