Well, that was unfortunate.
There you were, basking on your bed like a terry-cloth-robed starfish, when Siri apparently couldn’t find anyone to deliver your Sunday morning bouillabaisse.
You have two ways of fixing this. One: lower your delivery standards.
Two: book the next flight to Istanbul.
Okay, so, option two...
Check right into the Marti Istanbul Hotel, a 270-room palace of sultan-like bedding where the 24/7 room service comes with a Michelin star, now open.
First, examine your surroundings. You’re in Istanbul. Rock-skipping distance to Asia. Never more than five feet from a rack of spiced lamb capable of converting even the most militant vegan. Things are good.
Inside, admire the hotel’s 11-story atrium. Test its acoustics. Remark, “Ah yes, fine contemporary Turkish architecture.” Stroke your beard. If you don’t have a beard, grab a bellhop who does, and stroke his. He’ll understand. We hope.
Follow that bellhop to your room. “The hamam is on the top floor,” he’ll say. Unless you’re in the Regal Suite—then he’ll say, “There’s one in your bathroom.” And since he’s loyal to the hotel’s Michelin-starred chef-in-command, you’re free to demand anything from the two in-house restaurants or the expansive room service menu anytime you damn well please. Finally, Sundays are back to normal.
Save for the eight-hour difference in kickoff times.
There you were, basking on your bed like a terry-cloth-robed starfish, when Siri apparently couldn’t find anyone to deliver your Sunday morning bouillabaisse.
You have two ways of fixing this. One: lower your delivery standards.
Two: book the next flight to Istanbul.
Okay, so, option two...
Check right into the Marti Istanbul Hotel, a 270-room palace of sultan-like bedding where the 24/7 room service comes with a Michelin star, now open.
First, examine your surroundings. You’re in Istanbul. Rock-skipping distance to Asia. Never more than five feet from a rack of spiced lamb capable of converting even the most militant vegan. Things are good.
Inside, admire the hotel’s 11-story atrium. Test its acoustics. Remark, “Ah yes, fine contemporary Turkish architecture.” Stroke your beard. If you don’t have a beard, grab a bellhop who does, and stroke his. He’ll understand. We hope.
Follow that bellhop to your room. “The hamam is on the top floor,” he’ll say. Unless you’re in the Regal Suite—then he’ll say, “There’s one in your bathroom.” And since he’s loyal to the hotel’s Michelin-starred chef-in-command, you’re free to demand anything from the two in-house restaurants or the expansive room service menu anytime you damn well please. Finally, Sundays are back to normal.
Save for the eight-hour difference in kickoff times.
