If your idea of Heaven on earth is sleeping in a discotheque, you are going to just love the Clift Hotel in San Francisco. Apparently the owners couldn't decide whether to build a nightclub or a "luxury" hotel, so they decided, "Heck, let's just do both!"
We arrived for a one-night stay on Saturday February 13th after two nights at the nearby (and exquisite) St. Regis Hotel. Although the Clift is just a few blocks away, the signs of trouble began as we approached from Geary Street, eyes peeled for the address of the Clift -- or some hotel signage. (Apparently like all trendy nightclubs, anonymity is very important, so the Clift makes their sign nearly impossible to read until you have driven right up to the hotel, or by good fortune been stopped by a traffic light.)
There is absolutely no driveway for the valet parking, but rather you pull over to the curb on your left and look for someone who looks vaguely valet-like. "That'll be 50 bucks a day. Give us ten minutes' notice and we'll have 'er ready for you!" chirped our valet. (Be careful not to give your keys to a homeless person. They will likely re-purpose it as a dwelling unit.)
Entering the hotel from the bright San Francisco sunlight is an exercise in pupil dilation. The lobby is dark and cool and cave-like. This dark and cool attitude continues with the demeanor of the hipper-than-you-ever-were-or-ever-could-hope-to-be front desk clerks. They literally define the word "insouciance."
After a perfunctory greeting, we were assigned a room key, a just-for-the-occasion typed-up cardboard hotel charge card/ID card (never seen this before), and a petit metal key for the mini-bar.
As our eyes tried to focus through the darkness of the lobby, we made our way around the corner from the "reception" desk towards the elevators.
Be very careful while approaching the elevators; there are a number of floor-to-ceiling pieces of re-bar ("art"?) strategically placed in just the precise locations for you to crack open your head or wallop your new Tumi bag. (Quelle horreur)
When the elevator door opens on the 11th floor, what is billed as a "soothing" hallway appears more like a "gloomy" passageway. In keeping with the throne theme from the lobby level, there are two glass-etched chairs across from the elevator doors (One would assume that no one was ever meant to sit upon these chairs. These are "accent pieces" and more "whimsy").
The deluxe double (room 1130) is certainly not small, though not particularly large, either. It is a study in monochromatic tones.
The furnishings appear trendy with an emphasis on style over substance. (This is not true for the beds; they are very comfortable and the linens are high quality and high thread count).
Our bathroom did not appear to be particularly small (as others have commented), but it did have all the warmth of a morgue. The floor-to-ceiling white tile needed only a stainless-steel gurney and a white sheet with a toe tag protruding to complete the ensemble. The (undoubtedly practical in dealing with mildew) vinyl shower curtain will take you back to your most recent overnight stay at a $59 Holiday Inn Express, and you will find yourself gazing from the toilet at the counter legs under the sink trying to figure out what on earth is the deal with the bright neon orange paint? Were these somehow reclaimed from a construction site? Is this the new face of the "green" hotel?
In daylight the room can only be described as "depressing" (although it did look better in night lighting, and I did like the mirrored wall across from the beds; it added a sense of space). But you can forget about reading lights or any thoughtful sense of well-placed creature comforts. This room is all about stage lighting and stage props. But then again, you are the star at the Clift Hotel!
We left our room at 5 PM and shared the elevator with a packed crowd of "pre-functioning" extras from "Friends," cocktails in hand, and a couple bearing the tell-tale pungently sweet aroma of "eau de cannibis" on their clothes. (I didn't know anyone still smoked pot. I thought that was charming.)
When we returned to the hotel at 11:00 PM we tried to pull into the valet parking curb lane, but it was filled with parked cars and there were men standing beside these cars smoking and talking (apparently the drivers for some club patrons inside). There was not a valet to be found.
Seeing no one to whom we could surrender our car, we simply parked it in the middle of Geary Street, with horns blaring behind us and cars pulling around us (I think the middle finger must be San Franciscan for "have a nice day!") as we fought our way past the doormen (assuring them we were indeed guests of the hotel and proving it with our little cardboard ID cards), and a mere 20 minutes later, lo and behold, we found a valet. (In the meantime we had just abandoned the car in the street, keys in the ignition, and hoped all would turn out for the best. Thank God it was an American car.)
We then pushed our way through the throngs in the lobby towards the elevator banks. The place was just jumping with spirited 20-somethings in full cocktail drag. There were body limbs draped over chairs and sofas and the mind-numbing thump, thump, thump of the dance music was blaring through the speakers. (I swear it looked like Animal House meets Ian Schrager meets Timothy Leary -- or perhaps the basement playroom of a suburban McMansion.)
Once safely delivered to the elevator bank, the elevator door opens, and, just so we wouldn't forget how horrible the lobby was, the Clift Hotel has thoughtfully piped in that exquisite thump, thump, thump of the dance music from the lobby so that it is now blaring through the elevator speakers. Oh it is always the little touches that make for a pleasant stay. Wouldn't you agree?
Once safely inside the room we sealed the door, giving thanks to God for deliverance from the maddening crowds (and particularly maddening hotel staff). There was not a sound at all save for the five or six girls who had brought the party to the room next door. (There might have been a boy in there, too; it was hard to tell.)
It was nice to know that the hotel so valued our security that they didn't even permit a maid to come in and freshen our room, turn down our bed, or tidy up the bathroom. Nope, everything was precisely as we had left it six hours earlier -- completely untouched. Now that is good security. And in the morning the only paper that greeted us at the our door was the hotel's invoice.
This hotel is nothing less than insipid. I would only recommend it if you are A) Under 30; B) Like to sleep where you drink; and C) Got it for under 150 bucks a night on Priceline.
If you are a grown-up, value comfort, service, taste, style or even a remote sense of personal warmth and genuine welcoming, please do yourself a favor and choose another hotel (almost any hotel).
San Francisco is full of gems and this one is nothing but a gaudy cubic zirconium with an attitude problem. And if you must stay here, don't forget your Ambien. You will surely need it if your bedtime is before dawn.
N.B. The Redwood Room is absolutely gorgeous. Stop in early for a drink and then go back to your comfortable five-star hotel.
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