SYDNEY — For you bad children who accidentally thoughtlessly maybe missed yesterday’s column: Kiddies, Mother is in Australia.
Question is: Why? Answer: Because I’ve already been to exotic locations like Atlantic City . . . so, where else?
I’ve flown two full days to see something you don’t usually see. Not the Outback. Not the Southern Cross. Not a kangaroo. Not Ayers Rock.
But to experience a one-of-a-kind, brand-new/just opened five-star fantasy hotel called the QT. Who knows why this is the name? Even the idea for that is kept on the Q.T.
We’re talking black derby hats for lampshades. Female doormen tarted up in red wigs à la ladies of the evening. Dressed department-store dummies dot the lobby. A bright colored sheepskin throw’s thrown across your bed. A room’s Do Not Disturb sign reads “Yes” on one side, “No” on the other.
The elevator plays music and shows digital art depending on how many bodies are in it.
The reservation desk is manned by women in black striped pantsuits, low-cut white camisoles, blond hair, silver jewelry. The ambience? Cutting edge, eccentric, quirky. The aroma? A playground after dark.
Listen, you like edgy and avant-garde, even its restaurant is eclectic. In one corner of the grill hangs a working tuna long gone to fish heaven. Want an order? No problem. The chef walks over and hacks out your entrée. Personally, me, I’d prefer looking at a floral arrangement, but what do I know? I’d nosh a stale bagel.
A Marriott it’s not.
QT is the creation of Australian hotelier David Seargeant who, by the way, loves New York. He’s had pastrami at Katz’s Deli and is arriving for Christmas to check out Serendipity.
Either the man’s dancing to a different drummer or he’s in sync with what plays today in the era of the unexpected and unreal. Television’s gone wonky. Fashion’s gone wacky. Berlusconi’s in the can. John Liu thinks he can be mayor. Same-sex married couples have twins. Chris Christie orders seconds. Fat is the new black. J.K. Rowling outsells Dickens.
Take those reality housewives whose shows show nothing real. Not the boobs, not the loves, not the hates, not the sculpted behinds. Stomachs get bypasses, noses get lifted, ears get pinned, breasts get enhanced, skin gets peeled, lips get plumped, chins get sharpened, areas get waxed, some hair gets electrolysis, other hair gets extensions. Everyone wants divorces.
Nails are fake. Lashes are fake. Teeth are fake. Biden’s molars are fake. Kim Kardashian’s marriage was fake.
Nowadays there are contacts for the eyes, implants in the cheekbones, cosmetic surgery, sex-change operations, no salt popcorn and 300–square-foot apartments.
Enter this bold, unique hotel. A marriage of landmarks. No marquee. A mélange of the city’s famous Gowings department store, born in the ’20s, to its next-door neighbor, the grand, ancient, gothic, baroque State Theatre which played “Gone With the Wind” in 1939.
Think B. Altman getting in bed with P. Diddy.
It’s the original timber floors. Placed around are early movie cameras, the kind that filmed Valentino. Not the old designer. The old actor. There’s a “cut-throat” retro-style barber shop where the close shave is with the antique style blade. Architecture is art deco on walls from an early day’s department store halls. A pre-Viagra antediluvian urinal decorates a loo.
Your room has a great bed, huge TV, all the Hi-Fi, Wi-Fi, Sci-Fi. And it’s tchotchke-central. Funky kooky flaky figurines, sculptures, whatevers. A white porcelain rabbit sits in my tub. There’s a red glass stool. The john is all black. Black floor, black walls, black sink. Daily a fresh crateload of hand cream, shampoo, conditioner arrives.
It’s the center of town. It’s Sydney’s version of Fifth Avenue. Steps from Louis Vuitton, Burberry, Starbucks. The zoo. The opera. The museum. Great eateries. Only a few blocks away is a Chinese restaurant which, of course, is an urgency for a New Yorker. Before Peter Minuit handed over a few bucks to buy Manhattan, he asked the Indian chief, “So how far is the Chinese restaurant?”
The town is not cheap. Taxi for a few blocks — $18. A friend needed some medication refill. A doctor came over. Spent less than two minutes. No stethoscope, no blood-pressure cuff. Never asked questions. And charged $250 “for the visit.” UGG had a sale. Advertised 50 percent off. Off was them. One pair of reduced boots was $2 less than the regular New York price.
So come over, even if you can’t get to this hotel for Halloween. Australia’s friendly. They speak a form of English. They love our country. Know everything about our election. Their television anchors, like ours, are all blond, young, pretty, with skirts that end at their armpits. Each blathers just like ours — bad economy, lousy politicians, juicy scandals and news about the frightening weather in New York.
I could’ve saved two days sleep by staying put. It’s like I never left home.