One of the more decadent features offered by San Diego’s newest lineup of not-your-mother’s hotels , the Keating, the Ivy and the Hard Rock , is see-through bathrooms and shower stalls.
OK, I’ve reached the summit of the hill. However, I postdate indoor plumbing, which brought the outhouse in house, and the invention of the electric light bulb that made reading in the bathroom an all-American pastime by a long shot.
Yet I believe in the inalienable right to privacy a bathroom enclosed by walls that stop one’s line of vision affords. It’s in the Constitution, right there under life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Aside from their utilitarian purpose, bathrooms are a great place to think and ponder the world situation, while showers are the only place some of the less talented types dare to sing.
And while we’re on the subject, allow me to sing, off key, the praises of the shower in the US Grant Hotel’s Signature Suite. If there was a rating system for showers, it would set the bar.
I recently treated my son , the only one home for the holidays , and I to a stay in the suite with its two king-sized beds, living room settee, dining table and two large, flat-screen TVs at an off-season rate. This was an opportunity to be tourists in our own town, even if just for a night.
As it turned out, it was the perfect end to what started out as a bummer day when I discovered that someone had keyed my car in a shopping mall parking lot.
I doubted the cost to patch the scratch that was down to the metal and stretched the length of the passenger door would be offset by the savings I netted on a few last-minute, bargain-priced gift purchases. But what the h-e-double hockey-sticks!
I was staying at the US Grant, where I’d celebrated my 21st birthday with my first legal drink and we’re both still kicking , she of course with the help of some pricey renovations, the last of which was completed for $56 million in fall 2006.
My beauty secret? I’m not telling.
While pointing out the exquisitely furnished room’s amenities, the hotel’s bell captain, who carted my suitcase, filled only with a few presents, a couple bottles of wine, some aged Gouda cheese and box of Wheat Thins , for Santa of course , proudly announced that the shower was the best one.
Indeed. Adjacent to the bathroom with oval shaped double sinks, the enclosed tile shower stall sports four showerheads that emit a mist that is like being in a rainforest. Not that I’ve ever been in a rainforest, but it couldn’t be any better than this.
The stall, which is easily big enough to accommodate Santa and a couple of his reindeer, also contains a cube-like corner bench that is out of the range of the spray, and if you turn the water to its hottest temperature, you’ve got a steam bath.
“Don’t you think that’s a lot of water to be using during drought conditions?” my son said.
“I heard on the news that the recent downpours have moved the needle,” I said, grabbing the floor length, terrycloth-lined bathrobe, courtesy of the Grant, as I closed the bathroom door behind me.
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