I usually write here to complain and vent my frustration, meaning that some good moments may go unrecorded. This is unfair in a way.
To celebrate a numerically significant anniversary of that fateful night in London, I took Jod to a five-star hotel in the outskirts of Aerosol for a midweek break. The multi-national staff were all outlandishly polite, surprisingly friendly and spectacularly effective; the bar was fabulously well-equipped and the bartender nothing less than a wizzard (I intend to be going back there); the food was delectable; the room the very lap of luxury (hotel management even threw in a complimentary bottle of bubbly and a fruit basket). It was not cheap but it was wonderful.
The clientèle consists mainly of Brits and very rich — thus nouveau riche — Russians. The unambiguous T-shirt of someone feeding the koi carp (although forbidden) on the first picture below and the selection of gilded and animal-patterned shoes (on sale in the hotel gift shop) on the second one bear witness to the presence of the latter. According to one of the restaurants’ sommelier, thanks to Russian patrons they sell a lot of a certain Bordeaux, Château Pétrus, at a modest 1810 euro a bottle.
But, hey, we had a brilliant time. Exquisite. A weekend between weekends. What more can one ask for?