A few years ago I was asked to speak at a conference in New York. ‘Where would be the best place to stay?’ I asked my assistant.
‘Well, you’re booked into The Trump SoHo’, she said, careful to pronounce the capital H.
‘Are you completely deranged? Do I look like a man with a craving for gold taps and Swarovski-encrusted towelling robes?’
‘The conference organiser has booked it. They’ve got a special rate.’
So a few weeks later a Lincoln Town Car (which after a long flight, for some unfathomable reason, is the best car in the world) dropped me in front of The Donald’s hotel.
I have to say, it was nothing like my stereotype: in fact, it was bloody marvellous; simply and elegantly decorated (perhaps by the fragrant Ivanka) and with wonderful staff. A year later I revisited by choice.
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