Upgraded to a corner suite on a high 30’s floor by one of the most pleasant front desk clerks I’ve encountered in far too long, my southeastern and southwestern views were spectacular. During my stay, I took in views of a nighttime rainstorm, sunrise, and bright morning sunshine. It was hard to close the drapes. (Hard, literally, because the elaborate remote control features weren’t immediately intuitive and I had declined, per usual, a bellman’s room orientation.)
The outside view was all the better from the lush bed. (Imagine if I’d remembered to use their pillow menu – enhanced bliss.) And inside, a clean-lined room filled with muted fabrics and furniture that screamed, “Designer!” Everything was quiet, comfortable, spacious (the bathroom easily the size of some other downtown rooms) – luxe.
The huge suite was filled with surprises. Some were not so good: like a door-less bathroom. Some were random and amusing: like the slide-in microwave tucked next to the minibar, or the self-conscious stack of Conde Nast magazines. And some were most welcomed: like the Trump Spa amenity line (worth squirreling away) or the many bottles of water. Bottles, plural! Trump hearts hydration too!
I remember fondly my first visits to certain new Manhattan hotels and how, in the five or six years since, they’ve aged and grown worn. So I’m saying a prayer for Trump SoHo because I don’t want to think about what it will be like in a few years – with its beautiful Fendi furniture nicked on its corners, the carpets worn, or shiny finishes scratched by hurried or uncaring guests.
The first time is supposed to be special, right? So I just want its beautiful new Trump car smell to last forever.
Myra paid $399 to do it for the first time at Trump Soho.