When you arrive late, very late, because the low-cost airline threatened to desert you on the tarmac, you had to wait a full four hours for a “refill” of petrol and therefore didn’t land until around 3 a.m. and took a taxi in at half past three in the morning of the city, then in Modernist Thessaloniki someone is still there and waiting. Then, as the only one in the otherwise pitch-dark street, a forgiving, warm light shines in the small lobby, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A dog is lying in front of the door and raises its head briefly in greeting when you jump out of the taxi. How often have you experienced that at such a time you had to look for hidden night bells or telephone numbers in front of a hotel entrance, stood helplessly with your suitcase in front of a locked sliding or revolving door and felt as if you had neither been ordered nor picked up until you at some point a grumpy, tired night porter opened the door and threw the room key in my hand with a reproachful gesture.

Here the sliding door opens without further ado, a smiling, fresh and awake-looking young man greets you and introduces you to the special features of his house. He talks about roof terraces and free coffee capsules as if it were early afternoon, as if he had been waiting all this time to finally be able to talk about the hotel in detail. It seems he would love to offer a guided tour through the whole building, but then he understands that you’re too tired for that.

A hundred years of loneliness

A bottle of red wine and “One Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel García Márquez are waiting upstairs in the room. It’s as if someone has prepared the small suite especially for a late guest, as if the porter downstairs has thought carefully about what one needs after such a nerve-wracking journey to cool one’s spirits and make one forget all the excitement. There is a small balcony overlooking the deserted street where you can sit and toast the stars. Incidentally, the well-stocked minibar also offers other options: there are hand-mixed cocktails in small glass bottles, strawberry daiquiris and negronis, waiting for a courageous opener or a firm stomach.

A few pages of Márquez, just to set the mood, then it’s already four-thirty—an hour before sunrise. Polished parquet floor, plus the marble worktop of the desk, as well as the shoe cabinet and the bathroom fixtures. The room radiates a gentle calm and security without being soporific. How often do you enter such a hotel room and immediately close the curtains, turn off the flashing television or lay out towels on the carpet, which is dangerous for fungus. So how often do you arrange hotel rooms in such a way that they don’t bother you anymore. Here it’s the complete opposite: you sit on the balcony, you stand on the parquet floor, you lie down on the mattress and feel upright and relaxed.