But then comes along the Gild Hall Hotel in the financial district of New York City. On paper, I should hate this place. It's got more than 100 rooms (127 to be exact) and it's owned by a major hotel chain (Thompson). But just look at it. It's like someone entered my 17-year-old mind and created a hotel out of my New York City fantasy. Growing up in Laguna Beach, the East Coast represented everything that my life was not. It was a place where people listened to jazz, sat around on brown leather chesterfields drinking whiskey cocktails, and debated Nietzsche in French while it snowed outside.
Despite having lived enough now to realize what I was yearning for was mostly pretentious wannabe intellectualism, this hotel still makes me feel all cozy inside. I would love to stay here on a winter visit to NYC or even just settle in for a hard drink with the Wall Street Journal.