202 Elizabeth

Cue the flashback: I’m a thirtysomething career-break cliché, freshly washed up in Sydney, Australia, and checking into my Surry Hills hostel. I’m doing my very best to smother the hotel reviewer I once was as I navigate a sea of gap-year teens playing Jenga, wondering if things had gone dreadfully wrong, or if I had merely become an insufferable snob. Whichever the case, each day that Mr Smith and I would head back to our budget digs, we’d have to walk past 202 Elizabeth.

It was a unique kind of torture, catching glimpses of its lobby through wide, street-facing windows. Inside, a slow rotation of prosecco-popping professionals and latte-sipping loners lounged against wood-panelled walls and sage-green booths. I’d occasionally spy Humphrey Bogart saying something terribly important in clips from 1940s Hollywood classics playing out on a series of black-and-white screens; in between each, sultry sconces lit up a world of transient, inner-Sydney sophistication. Not a Jenga block in sight.

Fast forward to now, and I’m no longer ogling the lobby like a forlorn puppy in the rain. No, no. In a delicious act of cosmic symmetry, the hotel I had once eyed with envy was about to hand me a keycard, just as the good Lord intended. As I buzzed 202 Elizabeth’s doorbell, a nifty bit of security for this super-central hotel, I couldn’t help but side-eye the hostel a few doors down, like an ex I was theatrically attempting to avoid. Beyond the once-forbidden threshold, my fellow guests emerged from the elevator with their remarkably well-behaved dogs; others chatted outside in the fairy-lit garden behind reception — a little world I hadn’t glimpsed from the street. Either way, they were all grown-ups, with jobs and the ability to pay for a decent coffee, and now — finally — so was I.

What my current and former selves share is, seemingly, a fondness for Elizabeth Street — the busy thoroughfare that runs from the Botanical Gardens, along the length of Hyde Park, and right into our 'hood, Surry Hills, one of Sydney’s coolest corners. It means that the Paramount Building is our endlessly entertaining neighbour, where you’ll find the Golden Age Cinema, the Pilates haven Studio Mouvoir, and the rooftop AP Bakery, purveyor of exceptional pastries. But beyond the area’s buzzy restaurants (the hottest reservation is Poly, closely followed by Pellegrino 2000) and crowd-favourite coffee houses (that’ll be Reuben Hills and Single O), it’s a land of plenty that’s teeming with some of the most fashionable boys and girls in Sydney. 

Before I can become one, I say thank you to the very helpful gentleman at reception, and ascend to my room: a modern mix of woods and olive greens, marbled tables and lively, floral prints — a clear extension of the handsome interiors exhibited downstairs. My room — the balcony-enhanced Oxford — is a boxy 21 square metres, perfectly sized for my one-woman comeback, but let’s just say I’m thankful there’s no Mr Smith in tow. It’s sandwiched between the Surry (20 square metres), and the Sussex (23 square metres), while two larger suites, the William and Lizzy, come in at 28 and 40 square metres respectively — the latter practically giant for a boutique hotel in this location.

The rooftop is a spacious surprise, too. And while the weather is too wet and wild for me to enjoy it, this leafy little outdoor lounge gave way to a great fantasy, one that saw me sipping wine from my alfresco throne, watching the sunshine bounce off warm-toned concrete and glass. The best part is, all you need is a sunny evening, of which Sydney usually has plenty, and you can join the ranks of those who’ve lived it. Wine is just one of the many things that the hotel's everywhere-all-at-once reception team are happy to fetch — a small menu of light bites and drinks can be brought to just about wherever you’d like, be it the ground-floor garden, rooftop, or lobby banquettes. If your room has a balcony, that’s not a bad spot, either. Despite the fact that my own backs onto the hoots and toots of Elizabeth Street, right across from the train tracks, once I pull that glass door shut, my room falls almost silent. Whichever room you're in, a sleep at 202 Elizabeth is king-size, Chromecast-induced and perfectly temperate, no matter what’s going on outside. 

At breakfast the next morning, it continues to rain in Sydney. A fierce lashing descends on the pavements outside those big lobby windows as I tuck into croissants and toast, cuts of ham and cheese. By the time I’d wrenched myself from bed, the breakfast buffet — laid out on an island in the central foyer — looked a touch sorry for itself, but it’s impressive how quickly I’d decided not to care since it was all so pleasingly bottomless. The coffee, however, was A* — and as my fellow patrons fled to brave the elements, I became the latte-loner I’d seen before, watching as a rain-soaked couple pressed their noses up against the glass to have a peek. A newly anointed cool cat of Surry Hills, I looked up at Humphrey Bogart on the screens. He looked pretty smug, too.