MAGAN'S WORLD:
MANCHÁN MAGAN's tales of a travel addict
I WISH someone had told me how to pronounce Cipriani before I strode into what is reputedly one of the most exclusive hotels in the world and blurted out my garbled version to the receptionist who was wearing a suit more expensive than my car. (It appears that the “C” is pronounced as in chips, not “kip”.)
I also wish I hadn’t boasted quite so extensively about my impending visit, as it would have avoided the embarrassment of having an old school friend turn up asking could he bunk in with me. I laughed off the request, thinking it was a joke, but no sooner had I been led into my three square boxes of paradise with wall-to-ceiling views of the Venetian lagoon than he rang again to say that he was on his way across the sea on the hotel’s private launch.
I had only a moment to savour the subtle opulence of the room and my private balcony looking out towards the San Giorgio Maggiore before I had to turn back downstairs and ask Mr Suit with as much integrity as I could muster whether my mate could bunk in with me. It reminded me of a time 20 years ago when the same guy missed the last bus home and I had to ask my parents could he sleep on the couch. Their look of disappointment mirrored perfectly the expression I imagined behind Mr Suit’s implacable smile.
My friend shuffled in, garrulous and ebullient after a healthy night's carousing. To everyone within earshot he ventured the opinion that, by rights, all Irish people should have shares in the Cipriani, considering it was built by Rupert Guinness, the second Earl of Iveagh from the profits of pints of Guinness bought by generations of our people. Before he could continue further, I steered him upstairs, wanting to avoid the possibility of meeting George Clooney who had been staying the night before, lest he launch into his favourite party piece – a mawkish rendition of Clooney's song from O Brother, Where are Thou.
I warned my friend about costs at the Cipriani: a room is between €550 and €8,700, and even a club sandwich and a glass of wine will cost over €40. My intention was to fast until my free breakfast the following morning, but in the end we were both rescued by a Venetian gallery owner, Holly Snapp and artist Geoffrey Humphries, who invited us to dinner in their studio home right on the Giudecca waterfront.
“A home-cooked Italian meal at Geoffrey’s is a privilege few in this world get to enjoy and none should decline,” wrote the late Joseph Heller and I can only heartily concur. We had a fantastic evening, but I made sure not to over-eat so that I could savour breakfast. This turned out to be one of the wisest decisions of my life, as breakfast was a revelation. The finest mozzarella and prosciutto, caviar and blinis, blueberry and pomegranate juice, nine different honeys, the morning’s fish catch, all presented on the geranium-festooned terrace overlooking the sea.
So exquisite was it that I was able to almost forget the sleepless night I had spent listening to my friend snoring, curled up like a loyal manservant at the foot of my bed. Just watching the pleasure he took from his croissants, figs and mortadella made the discomfort all worthwhile, and I could only heartily agree when he said what a pity it was that Lord Iveagh, when he donated his townhouse on St Stephen’s Green (Iveagh House) to the Irish people, hadn’t thrown in the Cipriani as well. We’ve since acquired his second home, Farmleigh, which I know would be a shame to lose, but I’d gladly swap it for the Cipriani.
* hotelcipriani.com