BUENOS AIRES – On a Sunday morning in March, we arrive at the Buenos Aires airport. I spot a sign with my name, and I know I'm home.
Literally: After a half hour cab ride, we arrive at Home Hotel on a narrow, tree-lined street in the Palermo Hollywood neighborhood. The small lobby is filled with Florence Knoll furniture, design books, hand-blown glass pieces, and a Mac computer. But I don't feel like I'm in a Dwell magazine spread. Nothing feels staged — it's too comfortable and too vintage, completely hip and totally unpretentious.
The friendly staff hands us fresh-squeezed juice and their for-guests-only guidebook of BA favorites. Our room is nearly ready (early check-ins are key in my world), but first I need a snack. We sit outside in the backyard cafe, sip mate, and survey the pool and lush greenery.
I could be at a friend's house.Two pretty Porteños next to us smoke, drink cappuccinos, and flip through the paper with gracious speed. They look effortlessly cool. The girl’s leather boots are very Kate Moss. Our room, the Poolside Suite, is a few steps upstairs. French wallpaper, book-filled shelves, minibar (so reasonable, that $10 bottle of Rutini sauvignon blanc we'll be drinking outside tonight), and modern amenities (nice Jacuzzi) add to the allure. And I'm totally going to ask them where I can get one of those alpaca blankets on the bed. I want it in mint green. Outside, the light-ﬁlled room opens onto a spectacular patio with lounge chairs, table, and ﬁreplace. That's going to come in handy.
I had tried to book the always-full Home Hotel many times. Finally, someone cancelled their reservation. Moral of my story: Persistence pays off. Tomorrow morning, after a free breakfast of pastries, fresh farm eggs, tea, and juice, we're hitting the spa downstairs. There’s an entire city to explore, but I wonder if I’ll ever leave Home