Capella Hanoi

My advice? Don’t do it. There’s no lasting good to be gained from staying somewhere that casts a long shadow across the pedestrian nature of your normal life for years to come (it’s not been years yet, but I’m willing to bet, a decade on, I’ll be ironing, thinking, 'This would never happen to me at Capella Hanoi').

While perhaps there’s no lasting benefit from being tumbled around in pure luxury like a rough old towel ready to be transformed into a fluffy pile, I have to admit that at the time it feels like you’ve won the lottery of life. And maybe that’s enough. 

Let’s unpack how we arrived at such an existential crisis. After a long-haul fight from London, Mr Smith and I fall out of our transfer and look up bleary-eyed, as the hotel rises like a Grecian temple from the city’s smog. Pulses checked and hallucination suspicions quashed, the facts remain. This beautiful white building is hewn into blinding columns that stretch skyward, where they’re anointed with golden tips, like a nod of approval from the gods. 

Our suite profits from a little balcony, ideal for morning coffee spent like one of the songbirds found around the city. From here, you can watch life saunter past on scooters and bicycles. The apartments feel like they might have been sculpted from one of my childhood fantasies — no lily is left ungilded. Enough of the cool, pared-back neutrals. There’s more to life than linen. And how good it feels when you see 'more is more' embraced in such a beautiful way. Lacquered furniture! Inlaid floors! Fringed lamps! Mirrored walls! Stage-costume paraphernalia! There is absolutely nothing subtle. It encourages a sort of youthful delight, an escape to the French colonial glamour of Hanoi in the 1920s. A time when pomp and majesty reigned and no want went unfettered. A time when you were born to be lifted and laid. Mr Smith, are you taking notes? 

'Would you like your trousers starched, gently starched or not starched at all?' The voice is faint as it drifts across the suite, but I can just about make it out from my prostrate position on one of the largest beds I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. The voice is Mr Smith’s. Perhaps he actually was taking notes?

Stays at Capella Hanoi include complimentary ironing and who am I to refuse a gift? It’s the beginning of a whole string of complimentary extras and the downfall of all realistic expectations for my future travels. There’s a cake trolley adorned with Fabergé-level fancies, live jazz music and cocktails, a cultural programme, and an all-day lounge where drinks and snacks are included. Suddenly we’re confronted with the conundrum of whether we’d trade seeing Hanoi at all and just surrender to this grand pearlescent pile on the fringes of its old French Quarter.

We meet in the middle, venturing out to see some local life, try the street food, visit the famous Train Street and indulge at some of the world’s best bars. Worn out, we retreat to our perfumed halls. That’s the thing about Capella: there’s so much more familiarity than formality here. It feels like coming home. 

'Maybe we should pop to the sauna, have a cold plunge?' I suggest. I’ve embarrassingly shown my hand. You can’t just turn up and self-guide your hot and cold therapy — you have to book, so that they can unravel centimetre-thick towels, ply you with snacks and check your hydration levels before you’re let loose.

Back upstairs, every tiny detail of our suite has been tweaked for turndown. Buttery soft sheets folded back, squishy slippers set out and aromatic salts laid enticingly by the fluted white bath. 

That evening, we resist the temptation to lounge (there’s literally a chaise longue in the room, so it feels like a missed opportunity) or splash around the marble bathroom, and instead head to dinner. Downstairs is Hibana by Koki, the hotel's Michelin-starred Japanese restaurant. This bijou space is the perfect contrast to snap things back into focus, reminding us that whatever Capella wants to do, it does it extremely well. Here it’s all clean lines and pale wood, and the teppanyaki tasting menu is sustenance for both body and soul. Our assigned (and extremely patient chef) proudly shows us an ink marking of a cow’s nose. It’s the human equivalent of a fingerprint, he explains, and the official Wagyu paperwork for what we’re about to receive. That is, some of the best food and service we’ve ever had.

Steel yourself: here’s some much-needed tragedy. Whether it was the street food earlier or the 'one more' drink at Koki is nobody’s business, but let’s just say karma deals with smug people in mysterious ways. All wasn’t lost though, because it turns out there’s no better hospital than a five-star hotel. Someone at breakfast was so concerned that Mr Smith arrived alone that minutes after his departure from our suite, a silver tray of orange juice, dry toast (doctor’s orders) and yoghurt appeared. 

Mr Smith sometimes complains about travelling with me (rude). 'Have a day off,' his body language occasionally screams, as I ask whether he thought the eggs were slightly underdone, or if in fact the bedding had ever heard of Egypt. Here — in a unifying twist of fate — there’s nothing to challenge. No stone has been left unturned on the quest to luxury-hotel Nirvana. Capella Hanoi made the list and checked it twice. There’s a breathtaking lack of anything to moan about. 

And here’s where the story ends. It’s one that’s left me wanting a sequel, and to coin Elle Woods, 'We spent a beautiful night together and I haven't heard from you since.' Capella, please call me back. I swear next time I’ll pre-book the sauna.