Going Slightly Mad (Men) at the TWA Hotel, NYC
Paul Oswell
(A heads up, this review does benefit from a working knowledge of the TV show Mad Men)
I have a friend who is delightfully obsessed with aviation. He knows the mileage and loyalty points dark arts, visits flight museums and has an airline serving cart in his house. It’s adorable. For his birthday a couple of years ago, he invited a few of us to join him in staying at the famous TWA Hotel at JFK International Airport in New York City. The location would perfectly mix retro glamour with his penchant for a plane-adjacent lifestyle. It opened as a hotel in May 2019, and we stayed in October, so the place had been operational for almost six months.
If you haven’t seen the property, it’s a conversion of the former TWA Flight Center, designed in 1962 by Eero Saarinen. It’s a spectacular building, truly like nowhere else. Audacious white curves, sweeping architectural flourishes and swathes of red carpet vie for your attention. Mid-century grooviness completely envelopes you, from the sleek furniture to the huge, clacking departure board, to the lobby staff in colourful period uniform. Arriving feels like walking onto the set of a Stanley Kubrick movie with set design by Pierre Paulin (me neither, I had to Google ‘fashionable 1960s interior designers’). It’s breathtaking.
The inner monologues as you stroll up to the front desk write themselves. I’m living in the jet age. I am defining 1960s cool. I’m Don Draper flying out to Los Angeles to escape his children. Oops, the digital, automated registration isn’t working. That’s fine, the old analogue way is more in character, anyway. I’ll check in acoustically. Up to the desk I saunter with all the poise I can muster.
“Your room isn’t quite ready sir, if you could come back in an hour or so.”
All good, my friend. Here’s my luggage. Let’s get a cocktail. I am the flow. I’m defining effortless sophistication. I’m Roger Sterling, laughing with supermodels while waiting for a slightly delayed departure to Rio de Janeiro. OK, the barman is taking a long time and seeking outside advice about how to work the latte machine, but the overwhelmingly authentic aesthetics mean that momentary glitches can’t derail the fantasy.
I wander the lobby and public spaces in wide-eyed awe, each view more photogenic than the last. To think, this is what airline travel used to be like. No overcrowded, utilitarian greyness as you caught your flight in those days, it was all lava lamp-lit flirting and complimentary gin fizzes. Now, let’s get to the room, shall we?
“Sir, if you could give us a moment, we’re just locating your luggage.” This is the front desk attendant, who looks stressed out. It takes almost thirty minutes because nobody knows how the storage system works. But I’m fine. I’m laid back. I’m Pete Campbell, gently simmering after a mild inconvenience. A thing like that. Let’s get to the room, shall we?
It’s a huge building, with a meandering, organic layout. This, combined with my embarrassingly useless sense of direction, means that I lose my way. That’s alright, I’ll just ask one of the lobby staff. They really are impeccably dressed, pressed and made up, the square-jawed men, and the women with those postwar, victory roll hairstyles. They smile and make you feel like a character in your own film, but alas, they do not know the way. Back to the desk to ask for directions again. But I’m unflappable. I’m centred. I’m Ken Cosgrove, fielding a rogue client request while squeezing a rocks glass with increasing firmness, but in a pristine suit. Now, let’s get to the room, shall we?
There are 500 rooms, and to get to mine, I walk along one of the most photographed corridors, a long white tunnel with a striking red carpet. Its plushness does not lend itself to frictionless transportation of rolling luggage, but let’s not get nitpicky. OH, THE CARPETS WERE TOO LUXURIANT? YOU POOR LAMB, WHAT TRIALS YOU ENDURE.
The room is easily the best-looking airport hotel room I have ever stayed in. Even my entry-level accommodation has somewhat of a runway view, mid-century furniture and fixtures, just lovely. There are some strange elements. There’s an empty mini fridge and a martini glass. Since I soon find out that there is no room service, and as most people don’t travel with a hip flask, I’m not sure what the glass is for. But it works visually, I suppose.
Also, there are no rubbish bins. There is a shelf with two, er, areas. One for recyclables. And one for…organic garbage, so if you’ve ever wanted to sleep inches from a slowly rotting apple core, here’s your chance. Now, the hotel spins this as a conservation effort (a sign says “Thanks for helping us be the greenest building in New York City”), so maybe I’m being harsh. Let’s say that.
As a hotel reviewer, I sometimes like to gently test the service when I stay at places, by which I mean I make reasonable requests, within the bounds of regular hotel amenities. I'm not demanding organically-sourced ketamine at 3am. Anyway. I wanted a wake-up call. Just a normal hotel thing. Why don’t I use this characterful, in-room rotary telephone to arrange one?
“Hi, I’d like to arrange a wake up call for tomorrow.”
“Oh, we don’t do those.”
“But, isn’t this an airport hotel? Don’t people ask for them a lot?”
“Everyone has phones these days.”
“I knowwww, but I do like to get a wake-up call as a back up if I have a flight. There’s nobody that can call me in the morning?”
“Actually the phones don’t work.”
“But…I’m speaking to you on the phone.”
“I mean, they don’t receive calls.”
“Ah, OK. So they’re like half a telephone.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
No. I’m good. I’m adapting. I’m holding it together. I’m Bert Cooper, yelling at clouds, befuddled by modern ways but still basically ensconced by luxury. Maybe this is how things are now. Phones don’t receive calls. Trash doesn’t go in trash cans. Maybe there’s an in-room thermos flask that only keeps things cold. Deal with it, grandad.
I wander back to the lobby to find out more about the place. I ask Victory Rolls some questions about food service and the like. She doesn’t really know anything. Neither does Square Jaw. They are in pleasingly precise, period-specific uniforms and you cannot fault the presentation. They just…can’t help you with much.
In any case, the celebrations begin. We had reserved tables at ‘Connie’, which is a fabulous, 1958 Lockheed Constellation airliner-turned-cocktail lounge. It’s beautiful. The drinks were delicious, served by staff, again in full character. We’re committing to the bit. We’re ebullient. We’re Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce Cutler Gleason Chaough landing the Chevrolet account. We party in my friend’s huge suite with cocktails, using our Martini glasses. Great times.
The next morning, hangover intact, I have time to kill. Maybe a quick dip in the heated rooftop pool would help me recuperate (Sterling reCooperate?). Again, this is absolutely on me, but I miss the ‘Hotel Guest Free Swim’ slot of 7am-10.45am. I would now require a reservation that the secretary I’m sleeping with (myself) definitely didn’t make, and in any case, it would cost $25 for a 1hr 45 minute slot as a hotel guest ($50 for non guests).
I do feel at this point that the hotel is lightly gaslighting me. I’m on the verge. I’m cracking. I’m Michael Ginsberg, yelling about how it’s all a conspiracy and the computers are controlling our minds. What do you NEED from me, TWA Hotel? Here, I cut off a nipple as a sign of my dedication to you! Can I just float in some warm water for ten minutes? Ooooh, that stings. Who are these burly men gesturing to a gurney? I love you forever, Peggy!
Sorry. I was cranky, and I’m being melodramatic, of course.
But here’s the pitch.
I think, on reflection, that the beauty of the building raises expectations to a perhaps unreasonable degree, especially if you’re a dewy-eyed dreamer like myself. The property looks so cinematically impressive, that when the ideal of a carefree, swinging, Madison Avenue-choreographed stay butts up against real world logistics, it can be jarring. I know, you don’t sell the steak, you sell the sizzle. But in the end, as the customer, you still really need the steak that you paid for, because the sizzle doesn't nourish you.
I understand the policies somewhat, apart from not being able to arrange a wake-up call at an airport hotel, which seems like a miss. Hotel management is a tough game. Maybe things have improved, but my advice would be to manage your expectations if you’re curious about staying here. You’ll come away with great photos for the ’gram, but also with a sense of disappointment. I'm checking out. I’m just me, heading back to the city, with decidedly mixed feelings.
More:
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Trunk and disorderly: Elephant Polo in Hua Hin, Thailand
Paul Oswell
(A heads up, this review does benefit from a working knowledge of the TV show Mad Men)
I have a friend who is delightfully obsessed with aviation. He knows the mileage and loyalty points dark arts, visits flight museums and has an airline serving cart in his house. It’s adorable. For his birthday a couple of years ago, he invited a few of us to join him in staying at the famous TWA Hotel at JFK International Airport in New York City. The location would perfectly mix retro glamour with his penchant for a plane-adjacent lifestyle. It opened as a hotel in May 2019, and we stayed in October, so the place had been operational for almost six months.
If you haven’t seen the property, it’s a conversion of the former TWA Flight Center, designed in 1962 by Eero Saarinen. It’s a spectacular building, truly like nowhere else. Audacious white curves, sweeping architectural flourishes and swathes of red carpet vie for your attention. Mid-century grooviness completely envelopes you, from the sleek furniture to the huge, clacking departure board, to the lobby staff in colourful period uniform. Arriving feels like walking onto the set of a Stanley Kubrick movie with set design by Pierre Paulin (me neither, I had to Google ‘fashionable 1960s interior designers’). It’s breathtaking.
The inner monologues as you stroll up to the front desk write themselves. I’m living in the jet age. I am defining 1960s cool. I’m Don Draper flying out to Los Angeles to escape his children. Oops, the digital, automated registration isn’t working. That’s fine, the old analogue way is more in character, anyway. I’ll check in acoustically. Up to the desk I saunter with all the poise I can muster.
“Your room isn’t quite ready sir, if you could come back in an hour or so.”
All good, my friend. Here’s my luggage. Let’s get a cocktail. I am the flow. I’m defining effortless sophistication. I’m Roger Sterling, laughing with supermodels while waiting for a slightly delayed departure to Rio de Janeiro. OK, the barman is taking a long time and seeking outside advice about how to work the latte machine, but the overwhelmingly authentic aesthetics mean that momentary glitches can’t derail the fantasy.
I wander the lobby and public spaces in wide-eyed awe, each view more photogenic than the last. To think, this is what airline travel used to be like. No overcrowded, utilitarian greyness as you caught your flight in those days, it was all lava lamp-lit flirting and complimentary gin fizzes. Now, let’s get to the room, shall we?
“Sir, if you could give us a moment, we’re just locating your luggage.” This is the front desk attendant, who looks stressed out. It takes almost thirty minutes because nobody knows how the storage system works. But I’m fine. I’m laid back. I’m Pete Campbell, gently simmering after a mild inconvenience. A thing like that. Let’s get to the room, shall we?
It’s a huge building, with a meandering, organic layout. This, combined with my embarrassingly useless sense of direction, means that I lose my way. That’s alright, I’ll just ask one of the lobby staff. They really are impeccably dressed, pressed and made up, the square-jawed men, and the women with those postwar, victory roll hairstyles. They smile and make you feel like a character in your own film, but alas, they do not know the way. Back to the desk to ask for directions again. But I’m unflappable. I’m centred. I’m Ken Cosgrove, fielding a rogue client request while squeezing a rocks glass with increasing firmness, but in a pristine suit. Now, let’s get to the room, shall we?
There are 500 rooms, and to get to mine, I walk along one of the most photographed corridors, a long white tunnel with a striking red carpet. Its plushness does not lend itself to frictionless transportation of rolling luggage, but let’s not get nitpicky. OH, THE CARPETS WERE TOO LUXURIANT? YOU POOR LAMB, WHAT TRIALS YOU ENDURE.
The room is easily the best-looking airport hotel room I have ever stayed in. Even my entry-level accommodation has somewhat of a runway view, mid-century furniture and fixtures, just lovely. There are some strange elements. There’s an empty mini fridge and a martini glass. Since I soon find out that there is no room service, and as most people don’t travel with a hip flask, I’m not sure what the glass is for. But it works visually, I suppose.
Also, there are no rubbish bins. There is a shelf with two, er, areas. One for recyclables. And one for…organic garbage, so if you’ve ever wanted to sleep inches from a slowly rotting apple core, here’s your chance. Now, the hotel spins this as a conservation effort (a sign says “Thanks for helping us be the greenest building in New York City”), so maybe I’m being harsh. Let’s say that.
As a hotel reviewer, I sometimes like to gently test the service when I stay at places, by which I mean I make reasonable requests, within the bounds of regular hotel amenities. I'm not demanding organically-sourced ketamine at 3am. Anyway. I wanted a wake-up call. Just a normal hotel thing. Why don’t I use this characterful, in-room rotary telephone to arrange one?
“Hi, I’d like to arrange a wake up call for tomorrow.”
“Oh, we don’t do those.”
“But, isn’t this an airport hotel? Don’t people ask for them a lot?”
“Everyone has phones these days.”
“I knowwww, but I do like to get a wake-up call as a back up if I have a flight. There’s nobody that can call me in the morning?”
“Actually the phones don’t work.”
“But…I’m speaking to you on the phone.”
“I mean, they don’t receive calls.”
“Ah, OK. So they’re like half a telephone.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
No. I’m good. I’m adapting. I’m holding it together. I’m Bert Cooper, yelling at clouds, befuddled by modern ways but still basically ensconced by luxury. Maybe this is how things are now. Phones don’t receive calls. Trash doesn’t go in trash cans. Maybe there’s an in-room thermos flask that only keeps things cold. Deal with it, grandad.
I wander back to the lobby to find out more about the place. I ask Victory Rolls some questions about food service and the like. She doesn’t really know anything. Neither does Square Jaw. They are in pleasingly precise, period-specific uniforms and you cannot fault the presentation. They just…can’t help you with much.
In any case, the celebrations begin. We had reserved tables at ‘Connie’, which is a fabulous, 1958 Lockheed Constellation airliner-turned-cocktail lounge. It’s beautiful. The drinks were delicious, served by staff, again in full character. We’re committing to the bit. We’re ebullient. We’re Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce Cutler Gleason Chaough landing the Chevrolet account. We party in my friend’s huge suite with cocktails, using our Martini glasses. Great times.
The next morning, hangover intact, I have time to kill. Maybe a quick dip in the heated rooftop pool would help me recuperate (Sterling reCooperate?). Again, this is absolutely on me, but I miss the ‘Hotel Guest Free Swim’ slot of 7am-10.45am. I would now require a reservation that the secretary I’m sleeping with (myself) definitely didn’t make, and in any case, it would cost $25 for a 1hr 45 minute slot as a hotel guest ($50 for non guests).
I do feel at this point that the hotel is lightly gaslighting me. I’m on the verge. I’m cracking. I’m Michael Ginsberg, yelling about how it’s all a conspiracy and the computers are controlling our minds. What do you NEED from me, TWA Hotel? Here, I cut off a nipple as a sign of my dedication to you! Can I just float in some warm water for ten minutes? Ooooh, that stings. Who are these burly men gesturing to a gurney? I love you forever, Peggy!
Sorry. I was cranky, and I’m being melodramatic, of course.
But here’s the pitch.
I think, on reflection, that the beauty of the building raises expectations to a perhaps unreasonable degree, especially if you’re a dewy-eyed dreamer like myself. The property looks so cinematically impressive, that when the ideal of a carefree, swinging, Madison Avenue-choreographed stay butts up against real world logistics, it can be jarring. I know, you don’t sell the steak, you sell the sizzle. But in the end, as the customer, you still really need the steak that you paid for, because the sizzle doesn't nourish you.
I understand the policies somewhat, apart from not being able to arrange a wake-up call at an airport hotel, which seems like a miss. Hotel management is a tough game. Maybe things have improved, but my advice would be to manage your expectations if you’re curious about staying here. You’ll come away with great photos for the ’gram, but also with a sense of disappointment. I'm checking out. I’m just me, heading back to the city, with decidedly mixed feelings.
More:
Is this London's most dystopian hotel?
Trunk and disorderly: Elephant Polo in Hua Hin, Thailand