Los Angeles: Le Petite Hotel

We move at a crawl down the long Santa Monica Blvd, looking for our turn-off, San Vincente. We booked a room at Le Petite Hotel, a boutique hotel on residential Cynthia Street, a few blocks from Sunset and close to Lily’s apartment.

The hotel entrance is framed by a semi-stained glass awning with floral curves against clear glass. The garage door is hidden behind a blanket of ivy. The actor/desk clerk stands behind a rich, dark-wood topped counter in a tiny lobby. He wears a vaudevillian jacket of black and white vertical stripes. Wooden cubbies—old-fashioned room key holders—line the wall behind the desk.

Original paintings, one after another, fill the walls going down the corridors, which are painted with gold-leaf curlicues. The room doors are covered in puffy orange leather and the room numbers are branded onto a leather rectangle.

Our room has a dining nook with a refrigerator, sink and counter top. The sunken sleeping area is a step down and a tiny wrought-iron railing separates the two, making the room feel like an apartment. The bathroom is tiled in tiny squares of green shades. The bathroom vanity is the only piece that doesn’t work for me, painted a distressed blue-green with yellow knobs.

Lily comes by to pick us up for dinner and to have a look-see at the hotel. We walk up to the roof of the four-story building. We walk around the elevated saltwater pool and its orange lounge chairs, white umbrellas and some orange cushioned chaises as large as double beds. There is a sunken cocktail level area that has heat poles for chilly nights.

A garden restaurant runs along one side of the building.