L'Hotel (Paris) Where Oscar Wilde lived & died
I am in Paris to visit Oscar Wilde. I have always admired his work and life and so I decided to stay in the hotel which is noted for hosting him during the last few years of his life. Wilde lived and died at L’Hotel after his imposed exile from London in the aftermath of his two year hard-labor imprisonment in England. This is where he famously said on his death bed: “This wallpaper is dreadful, one of us will have to go.“
I took a cab to L’Hotel from Gare de Lyon where I arrived from an 8 hour train ride from Barcelona. The lobby is low key opulent with multiple brocade and dark cherry wood designed lounge areas. I can’t get over the the impressive sky high spiral stair case with a view straight up to a windowed ceiling.
After check-in, I retired straight to my room, which happened to be “The Oscar Wilde Suite -which is where he lived and died. Would I see his ghost?
I decided to treat myself to a luxurious bubble bath. I poured myself a glass of Clos d’Ambonnayand that came complimentary with my room and filled the marble bath tub with the hottest water possible and precious oils. After luxuriating for a little bit, barely able to keep my eyes open, I keep nodding off in the bath and so I step out and wrap myself in a fluffy, white terry cloth robe and walk out to the bedroom.
Sitting on one of the red brocaded arm chair is Oscar Wilde in ghostly flesh. I asked him to please give me some privacy so that I could change into my clothes. He asks if I would like to go out for a night out on the town. I am shocked by how forward he’s being. He just walked into my room, didn’t even bother knocking and expects that I will go out with him. Of course since he’s Oscar Wilde, I can’t refuse.
He asks me to get dressed, and informs me that he had already made reservations downstairs at L’Hotel’s Michelin starred restaurant, he had already planned the whole night. Any sleepiness I was experiencing previously had diminished itself into full energy. I wear a black dress with a lace detailed neckline and a dark sapphire ring.
Conversation with Oscar is intense as he makes one funny quip after the next about anything and everything within sight. He calls out to the waiter to refill his water, “Garcon!”, which causes me to almost choke with laughter on the sip of wine I just had. Other patrons in the restaurant glare at me, never paying any attention to my guest even though he is being louder than I am. Oscar really was one laid back and fun ghost.
After dinner Mr. Wilde and I walked through the narrow streets around the Left Bank. Hand in hand we laughed as people stare at us incredulous. To them it looked like I was holding hands with the air, skipping through the streets and laughing alone. The night carried on well as Mr. Wilde stressed his hush-hush anarchistic political ideologies. He continues to tell me about his old life in London and his new life in Paris, and he explains the sad inspiration behind his jail house written poem “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”. He continued to speak as we approached the Latin Quarter. It had been drizzling rain earlier in the evening and at one point I tripped and landed face first on a sidewalk puddle. Only to find that I was back in my suite’s marble tub, the bathwater lukewarm and my champagne flat.
L’Hotel
13 Rue des Beaux Arts,
75006 Paris, France
http://www.l-hotel.com/
