Last week, I was on assignment in Berlin, courtesy of the German Marshall Fund of the United States. I’d agreed to write a piece on Berlin ten years after the fall of communism, a serious investigation into the identity crisis Berliners are suffering as they enter the 21st century.
Oddly enough, my friends and colleagues all had the same reaction to this important project: “How come you get to go on all the good junkets?” I explained to them that this was not a junket. I was being sent to Berlin to meet with politicians, businessmen, and members of the media. But no one was buying it. Said a colleague, “Someone pays for you to go there? They expect an article? It’s a junket.”
I took refuge in Webster’s definition of a junket as “a trip made by an official at public expense.” It’s true, the German Marshall Fund was “a gift from the German people,” but I was no official. Besides, I was spending only a brisk five days in Berlin, working hard, with meetings practically around the clock.
Of course, I needed a place to stay. I’m not one to insist on five star hotels that offer every conceivable amenity, but when I found an exceptionally reasonable rate at the Hotel Adlon — a five star hotel that offers every conceivable amenity — I saw no reason to look further.
The Adlon is a storied establishment, dating back to Wilhelmine times. It’s where monarchs and presidents stayed, including Teddy Roosevelt, who ordered antelope steak. Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, and Josephine Baker were guests there, too. It burned down after World War II, when Russian troops were in residence. (Some say the Red Army accidentally started the fire while getting sloshed in the wine cellar.)
But in 1997, the Adlon rose again on the original spot, Pariser Platz, across from the Brandenburg Gate. Investors plunked down $ 250 million for lavish interiors of stucco, marble, and fine wood. Ever since, the hotel has been striving to become the Waldorf-Astoria of Berlin, wooing foreign visitors and angling for good press.
It was only natural, then, that I should make sure the hotel’s communications director knew I was an American journalist writing about Berlin. And how could I be anything but pleased by her offer of an upgrade?
When I arrived, the bellhop actually announced me to the front desk. In the rear, I could hear someone whisper, “Das ist Herr Matus! Das ist Herr Matus!” The front office manager sprang to his feet, walked around, and vigorously shook my hand. While he was welcoming me warmly to Berlin, I noticed employees appearing out of nowhere, standing at attention and smiling from ear to ear. When it emerged that my upgraded junior suite was not yet ready, the manager asked whether the executive suite would be to my satisfaction.
This comfortable apartment turned out to overlook the corner of Wilhelmstrasse and Unter den Linden, a bit like West 57th and 5th Avenue (except that Wilhelmstrasse was once the Pennsylvania Avenue of the Third Reich). On walking in, I found myself in a sleek wood-paneled foyer with an inlaid floor. One door led to a green and black marble bathroom; two sinks were flanked by amenities from Bvlgari (yes, the brand too pretentious to use a “u”); the bathtub was a whirlpool.
Two other doors led to a cream-colored living room and a walk-through closet opening into the bedroom. A housekeeper’s closet was filled with a week’s supply of towels and toiletries so guests would rarely be offended by the sight of a cleaning cart in the hallway. After a waiter came in with fresh fruit and champagne, I started to feel twinges of guilt at what seemed to be turning into one of those junkets.
The next morning, I had a complimentary breakfast with the communications director. Afterward, she gave me a tour of the hotel, including the posh presidential suite, which made my executive suite look lame. Steven Spielberg once stayed here with his architect in tow — he wanted his yacht done in similar fashion. The suite had bullet-proof glass, a fireplace, two wide-screen televisions, kitchen, and separate quarters for your butler (or bodyguard).
All this luxury was making me nervous. There was nothing for it but to get on with the work I’d come to Berlin to do. I headed back to my suite to study my complicated schedule. Through hours on the phone, I’d set up a dense series of interviews, nearly back to back. There were a few gaps, of course, a few hours here and there that I would put to good use.
Looking over my commitments for that first day, I realized that one such opening loomed before my 11 A.M. appointment with a member of parliament — just enough time, in fact, for a visit to the hotel spa. Did I mention the Adlon has a first-class Finnish sauna?
VICTORINO MATUS
