Is it wrong to go halfway around the world for a plane ride and a hotel? I don’t mean just any plane ride or any hotel. I mean a blissful, 16-hour flight of pure comfort and sanctioned laziness and a hotel of such supreme indulgence that it’s hard to verbalize. But I’ll try.
On the plane, I had big plans for productivity. With two deadlines looming, I would use this cocooned time to polish them off. What a smart idea! And yet I didn’t even open my laptop. I didn’t watch a movie. I read half a magazine. Instead, I was fully committed to napping and sometimes sleeping. When I landed in Hong Kong, I felt as if I’d visited a rest clinic named Cathay Pacific.
If you happen to have jet lag—and I clearly didn’t—the Upper House hotel is exactly where you want to recuperate. It’s a slice of luxury that’s quiet and assured. The team there knows its guests are weary and impatient upon arrival, which explains why there’s no check-in desk or tedious wait in an over-decorated lobby. There’s essentially no lobby. And that may be one clue as to why the word “Hotel” is missing from its name. Instead, the managers whisk you up to your room to get settled without any obligatory tour of the property or the electronics—both of which would fly out of your brain immediately. I wish the Upper House team would alert the world’s hoteliers that this is the way a traveler wants to be greeted.
The hotel, designed for maximum tranquility by André Fu, is all pale-blond wood, natural materials, and flattering light. My spacious room, called Studio 80, had a soft, gray-beige couch—what fashion people call “greige”—and forest-green cushions that match the lush hills of Victoria Peak, outside the panoramic windows. The tub, with Bamford geranium bath salts and a full view of the city, could accommodate a family of four. There’s no extraneous nonsense or cuteness; everything in the hotel seems dead set on encouraging a sense of profound well-being.
How profound, you might wonder. Cellular-level deep. The first thing I did after unpacking was toss back a glass of AG1, the green supplement that’s available gratis in the mini-bar. Then I headed to a sound-bath session in a big, dimly lit room with an enormous fireplace and a stupendous gong. As we lay on mats, under blankets and eye shades, the instructor guided the class through a series of pings, chimes, and thundering crashes. It was like a meditation crossed with a massage combined with a concert. I left in a very pleasant trance.
You can spend a few sweet hours at the Upper House’s 10x Longevity center, with its hyperbaric chamber, infrared sauna, cold plunge, and various L.E.D. and micro-needling facials. You can also pass a harrowing, nausea-inducing 55 minutes in an exercise class with a name that made me assume it was child’s play. It’s called Family Form. Doesn’t that sound easy? Not even close. In an infrared-heated room, the instructor leads a mat-sculpt class, moving nonstop and without verbal instructions. The other attendees, all locals, followed without missing a step, demonstrating a degree of fitness that I thought existed only in an Olympic Village. All I can say is, I didn’t die. And when I emerged, my face was the color of a Szechuan pepper.
On the first evening, the trip’s host suggested room service and an early bedtime. But I dashed out instead with a new friend, Romilly Newman, to a restaurant she plucked from a long list of recommendations. This is one of the many upsides of having a new friend who’s a food person and a former contestant on Chopped. We sampled nearly half the menu at Yardbird, including a sophisticated, beautifully crunchy version of a Filet-O-Fish sandwich.
Over the next few days, we polished off egg tarts fresh from the oven; bowls of noodles that doubled as steam facials; plump, quivering dumplings; and tender, lacquered duck, served with its head. One night, the chefs from the various House hotels in China gathered to prepare their specialties in multiple courses involving tea cakes, bamboo shoots, and toothfish. We consumed a vegetarian lunch from the monks on Lantau Island and a kitschy but impeccable Chinese dinner—prawn toast, whole fish, roast duck, and abalone, along with cocktails and mocktails served in lucky-cat vessels—at Ho Lee Fook. (Say it fast.)
When I’d devoured every imaginable dish and sweated out every possible toxin, it was time to go home.
But first, the airport lounge. When they’re good (Air France in Paris! Turkish Airlines in Istanbul!), I tend to arrive ridiculously early to take advantage of every inch. If you feel the same, then I urge you to dedicate a few hours to Cathay Pacific’s. The press representative arranged for me to swan around the first-class lounge, and I highly recommend it. Along with a restaurant serving exquisite Chinese and Western dishes, there are private napping rooms, spacious showers, and foot massages on demand.
The sleep score on my Whoop band usually hovers at a dismal 40 percent. But four days in Hong Kong catapulted me to an impressive 90. It won’t last, but I’d happily travel halfway around the world just to see it again.
The writer was a guest of the Upper House, where room rates begin at $700 per night
Linda Wells is the Editor at Air Mail Look
