I own that, in my politics-free childhood, I adored Margaret Thatcher, or the unknown feminist idea of her, but for the fact that she was a woman leader, and the Spice Girls iconized her Girl Power.
As I grew up to foreign writers like Francis Wheen and Martin Amis, I was able to cut through popular notions and into the angry satire of her, which was not just for the enjoyment of enlightened Britons but for a less greedy world that found her ambitions absurd.
I see they call Seda an “urban lifestyle hotel.” I call it a “staycavation” (staycation + cave), where my family escaped from the arid cityscape of holy week. Shops and restaurants were closed; Claw Daddy and New Orleans at BGC were the last bastions of decadence, offering terrasse views of self-imposed suffering a la Jesus Christ. You can sip a cocktail while watching believers take up their polished black crosses.
Seda planted a life-sized wire giraffe by the glass back entrance, and this earns the
boutique hotel urban lifestyle hotel eternal redemption for me. Also, props for opening doors to us sinners during Holy Week, and for letting us wash our feet in the swimming pool, which had a gorgeous layout.
I’m not sure Seda wants to be known for its food. It keeps chasing gustatory dreams away by marketing its proximity to BGC. And unlike most hotels with bustling buffet labyrinths, it had no culinary presence. We ordered some desserts (I’m pretty sure it was by accident we came to know they had food): a blueberry cheesecake that’s only faintly like the blueberry cheesecakes we know, gelatinous and could-have-been panna cotta. And a tiramisu cradled in what seemed to me a soap dish lined with instant coffee.
The rooms are not carpeted wall-to-wall so do be careful about tripping on carpet edges.
The best way to enjoy Seda is to indulge in HBO’s spirituality: an LOTR marathon while buried in heavenly clouds of bed linen. Seda is where the sinners go when hell is an empty city.