And let’s stay at the Alfonso Hotel
Once upon a time there was a handsome prince.
And as fables go, a handsome prince must find a palace to call his own little tranche of heaven. He searched oh-so high and oh-so low, across the whole wide world. From the ancient royal palaces in the Indian Rajasthan desert, to the classic German schlosses in the foresty countryside. All the way to the modest Japanese shiros made from wood and stone, to those English manor homes from your royal make believe fantasies. But nothing quite satisfied his utterly discerning palate.
He wanted something modern enough to enjoy without the said draftiness, and cobwebs. He wasn’t a great fan of empty cold spaces of the old world’s castles. And he definitely didn’t appreciate the loneliness of the oversized palaces either. But yet, he also wanted to revel in something mystical and wondrous. He was a prince afterall, and princes love all things interesting and exotic. But, where would this palace be? How could our prince uncover and discover such a mystique?
After decades of tirelessly exploring the globe, with nothing to show for it, the prince arrived in the great country of Spain. The cities, Madrid and Barcelona, entertained him and showed him the fineries of life. And he fell in love with that Spanish way of life: a little siesta, a late night dinner, and let’s not forget that love for gorgeous leather shoes. A prince was reborn, in Spanish rapture.
Seville wasn’t on the prince’s itinerary, but he happened to stop by for a lovely weekend escape. Commissioned by the King of Spain, built in 1929, in that sexy Neo-Mudéjar style; perhaps our monarch found himself a nest. There it was – the Alfonso Hotel.
Whether it was the Andalusian regionalism hints, or the interior displays of gorgeousness that attracted our prince. Once he stepped foot inside Alfonso, his search all but ended. Arches, columns, elaborate coffered hanging lamps and the finest carpets and tapestries. His ears perked up, his eyes shined once again and a smile was even visible on his lips.
Oh and then there were banquet halls, ready for feasts with friends. Giant bedrooms with four poster beds to jump on all night. And other ceramic azulejos tiles on the walls, with eccentric colored marble and intricate forever woods – the place was fit for…well, a prince.
Alfonso Hotel, the grand palace that it is, was always my place of fairy tales. I didn’t sit in the courtyard just watching people, I incorporated them into my stories, my reveries. I allowed my mind’s eye, as a young boy, to travel and this was the fable I created. I was the prince, I was finally feeling at home, and Alfonso was that fantasy.
A hotel isn’t just a place to stay; it’s a place to dream with. It’s a daydreaming catalyst and caregiver. Alfonso fed my fantasies, it nursed my imagination and it did it all so unassumingly. I could be a prince for a day, or a week, and then I could carry this magical realism with me wherever I went. School can’t teach you this, and people can’t show you this. Places, and hotels like Alfonso – if you let them – hold the sap of beauty, which is yours to guzzle.
