In Dusseldorf... day one

I'd like to call myself a 'biscuiteer', but having mistaken a small, wrapped block of hard foam designed to clean shoes for some kind of free snack, possibly even a biscuit, I think I seriously failed the entrance examination.

I'm safely ensconced in my room at the Mercure Hotel and I thought I'd scout around for any freebies and that's when I encountered what I thought was a biscuit. Life can be infuriating. There's not much for free: a sachet of premium peppermint tea, two elongated sachets of instant coffee, some 'Zabielacz de kawy creamer' – that's powdered milk to you and me – and a couple of sachets of sugar. Oh, there's a bottle of Evian mineral water.

Hoteliers can get a little angry when I suggest that a locked minibar means they don't trust their guests, but I hate that unmistakable feeling of exclusion. There's a couple of locked doors, one being a small safe that has been rendered unusable, and the other some kind of fridge, which I'm guessing is either empty or jam-packed with beers and wines and wasabi nuts, but just not for me for some reason. I wonder if they thought, 'hold on, we've got Moggridge staying with us, lock the minibar and don't give him access to the mini safe either'. There must be some kind of policy decision that says 'lock the fridge and the safe and don't leave any keys floating around'. Annoying, but so far I have very little to complain about, well, apart from trying to find the elevator. One of them was out of order so I was directed along a corridor to where I would find another, but I got lost and had to ask for directions. It turned out the lift was up some stairs, on the first floor no less, so I figured what was the point? I walked instead and soon found my room, which was absolutely fine. There was a carpeted floor, a single bed, a flatscreen television, power points, a telephone (that worked!) and various leaflets. The bathroom was small but perfectly formed, there was space for my suitcase and suits and I was pretty pleased for another reason: I was under four minutes' walk from my all-time favourite Italian restaurant, Da Bruno, where I had booked my usual lonely table for one.

The flight over from Heathrow T5 was fine: some initial cloud, but fairly smooth and now that BA has decided, a la easyJet, to charge for its food I decided not to bother, opting instead for lunch at Huxley's (butterfly chicken and a glass of Pinot Noir followed by a single espresso and the bill). I'd arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare and once lunch was out of the way I moseyed around getting angry about the assumption, made by airport operators the world over, that once people find themselves 'beyond passport control and through security' they're somehow able to afford Prada handbags and Rolex watches, not forgetting Burberry coats and sich like. I found a WH Smith's but couldn't find a book decent enough to warrant my attention and left for gate A18 empty-handed.

Bang on time, the train from the airport to Dusseldorf HBF...

Once I had landed in Dusseldorf, German efficiency kicked in: passport control was a breeze, jumping on board the Skytrain was simplicity itself and when I reached Dusseldorf HBF I walked for five minutes until I reached the hotel, from where I write this.

Time is moving fast and it's almost time for dinner so I'm skipping off to my favourite restaurant of all time, Da Bruno on Karlstrasse, which is under a four-minute walk away from the hotel's front desk. I couldn't ask for more if I tried. The reason I'm in the Mercure is because once, when I bowled nonchalantly into Da Bruno expecting a table and not getting one, I wandered around and eventually decided to have dinner in the Mercure's restaurant. Alright, it was a last resort and wasn't a brilliant meal but at least I knew there was a hotel close-by that was even nearer than the Burns Art Hotel a few doors along. The only reason I knew of Da Bruno's existence was because the receptionist at the Friends Hotel, which is located at the other end of Karlstrasse, recommended it to me about a year to 18 months ago. Now, whenever I'm in Dusseldorf, I book a table, like I did tonight.

After dinner (Parma ham with melon, pappardelle with mushrooms, two glasses of red wine and a cappuccino) I took a stroll in the direction of the Friends hotel, but turned left and found myself in a kind of Japanese area of town. I milled around for all of two minutes and then turned back, whistling that guitar riff from the Rolling Stone's Last Time single. "This will be the last time, maybe the last time I don't know..." and I can't remember the rest, or whether what I've just written is even correct, but I do remember the whining guitar riff.

Fortnum & Mason, where we all shop!!!

I'm back in the room. To be honest I now know when to stop; in the past I didn't have a clue and would happily prop up the bar drinking beer into the early hours – oh how foolish I was! It's not yet 10 o'clock and I'm already thinking about switching on the television, possibly drinking that bottle of Evian and then hitting the sack. While I drank the bottle of water I refrained from watching the television, but then, lying in bed, lights off, deep in thought about this and that, I felt restless enough to get up and start sub-editing this blog post and, as you can see, write something extra too, but now, as I look at the clock in the top right hand corner of my laptop's screen, I see that it's now ten past midnight and this time I really am shutting things down and hitting the sack.

I write a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be read by clicking here.

Time runs out in Dusseldorf

The Burns Art Hotel – time to check out

With business tied up by just gone 3pm I embarked upon another long, long walk across the city. It took, like yesterday, just over an hour, and the weather was a little colder. I reached the hotel around 1630hrs and then, after a little bit of faffing about with my suitcase, I bade farewell to the Burns Art Hotel and hit the streets.

Late afternoon/early evening is a funny time of the day because it's a good couple hours off dinner and it's too late for a snack, like, say, a cup of tea and a millionaire's shortbread. In fact, that's something I never really got together while I was out in Dusseldorf. I never found a cosy place to drink tea, munch on something sweet and read my book – The Moth, a collection of short, true stories, some good, some a little disappointing, but an ideal book to read in a Starbucks, if I could find one.

I'm always looking, but never finding, peace. That's what I need more than anything else: a bit of peace and quiet. A  cup of tea, an almond croissant and some time to sit and read the papers or a book or both. Coffee shops are the best place to be in this respect and, dare I say it, Costa, Caffé Nero or Starbucks fit the bill, especially mid-to-late afternoon in an American city. I remember a good occasion of this sort in Indianapolis a couple of years ago and one in Chicago last October – both courtesy of Starbucks.

On Wednesday I found myself in Dusseldorf's old town – or Alt Stadt – trying to find somewhere that fitted the bill. I eventually stumbled upon a Starbucks, but it was getting round to lunch time and I didn't want to start ruining things by eating cookies or whatever just prior to tucking into lunch. Not that I should have worried. On that particular day I'd already walked for what seemed like miles and then I walked round and round the Alt Stadt, not even window shopping, just walking and that's how the Starbucks came into the picture. But as I said, I passed on it and walked a fair old way back to the street where my favourite restaurant is located. But there was no room at the inn. I've written about this – how I went to the Thai restaurant instead – so I won't go on about it.

Stumbled across this sculpture in the Alt Stadt

So Friday afternoon's kind of similar, but in a sense the other way around. It was as if somebody had one of those huge old sand timers – what are they called? You know what I'm talking about, an hour glass, that's it. It was as if somebody had taken an hour glass, turned it upside down and I had to fit everything into an increasingly smaller space of time. And I was a little tired too. You would be had you just walked all the way across town like I had. I stopped off at a few shops on the way, like I did on Thursday. I bowled into a supermarket looking for God knows what. White hot chocolate, German tea, German breakfast cereal, a bottle of wine, but I didn't buy anything. Then I went into one of those posh but weird shops that sell odd stuff like upmarket-looking shaving brushes, pens, clocks – "men's stuff" – and I ended up trying some aftershave.

The long and the short of it is this: I ended up at the airport miles too early. Like four hours too early. I couldn't even check in so I found a restaurant and ordered tuna and penne and one of those big, balloon-like glasses of red wine and sat there reading The Moth. And then I made the mistake of ordering another. I say 'mistake', it wasn't so much a mistake, but I could have done without it.

Dinner here was not good, but not bad either

I went through security, had to take my laptop out of my suitcase and endure all the hassles – laptop in it's own tray, coat in another tray, suitcase in another, it's such a fuss, but it's all for a good cause – mine and my fellow passengers' safety. Once on the other side, time flew past and soon there was only 30 minutes before my flight was due to take off. But of course it never took off on time. Everyone was standing around at the gate and there was some kind of delay, but soon we all filed on board. I had seat 3a so I was soon sitting there, seat belt on, reading The Moth again. But other passengers delayed things. We eventually got off the ground about 30 minutes late. I hate night flights. You can't see anything. It was pretty smooth all the way over and having already enjoyed two glasses of wine I didn't order anything from the hostess.

We made good on lost time and hit the tarmac at Gatwick around 2122hrs. A cab journey followed and I was home in time for the news. Iain Duncan Smith  – otherwise known as IDS – had resigned from the government over Osborne's plan to cut benefits for the disabled, while giving the rich a tax cut. What a fucking bastard! Actually, they're both bastards. IDS is a bastard too, but I understand that his resignation letter is going to cause Osborne a few problems. Some have called for his resignation. Not good when you consider that Osborne has prime ministerial ambitions.

Back in Dusseldorf...

It was too cold and too late to wait for a train

Normally I fly with British Airways out of City Airport, but because I'd left it to the last minute, BA was looking a bit pricey so I opted for easyJet instead and flew out of Gatwick. I was on the 1605hrs train from Redhill to the airport and then, once there, took the shuttle to the North Terminal, went through security and then just wandered about until I was directed to gate 105 from where the plane took off.

The flight was good, although I missed the dulcet tones of the true Brit pilot that goes hand-in-hand with British Airways. I like the reassuring, "Welcome aboard this British Airways flight to Dusseldorf. My name is Captain Roger Finnegan and with me on the flight deck this morning is First Officer...". You get none of that reassuring stuff with other airlines and that includes easyJet.

In fact, the first really annoying thing about easyJet was the fact that there appears to be just one flight to Dusseldorf at 1810hrs and it doesn't arrive until around 2100hrs. This, I figured, would put me at a disadvantage when it comes to eating dinner. In a nutshell, it could put an end to any thoughts of dining at my favourite restaurant, Da Bruno, which I know is only a short walk from my hotel. An even shorter walk from the Burns Art Hotel than the Friends Hotel, which is saying something. In fact I didn't realise how easy it would be until I walked out of the hotel, having checked in, and almost tripped over the place.

View from room 32, Burns Art Hotel, Dusseldorf, Germany

On arriving at Dusseldorf Airport I normally take the Skytrain to the railway station and then walk to my hotel – and that was the plan on this occasion too. But first the ticket machine wouldn't accept either my credit or debit card and then there seemed to be a longish wait for the train in the cold. Furthermore, taking the train into town would mean no dinner and I was starving having had a small bottle of red wine and a couple of tiny packs of salted peanuts and cashews on the plane.

I had considered a Pollo Caprese flatbread, but then I remembered a text I had received earlier from easyJet saying that the oven on my plane was out of order and there wouldn't be any hot food. In a way it was a blessing in disguise because I did make it to my favourite Italian, albeit at just gone 10pm and enjoyed penne arrabbiata before hitting the sack.

The other view from room 32, Burns Art Hotel, Dusseldorf

I'm staying in the Burns Art Hotel. What a fantastic place! It's right next door to a Thai restaurant, where I've just had a light lunch having discovered that Da Bruno is packed to bursting and didn't have room for me. But the Thai restaurant was nothing to write home about. The hotel, on the other hand, is definitely worth a few words.

First, it's a 'boutique' hotel, which is another word for small and edgy and also a little bit 'trendy'. But that aside, they've put me in room 32 on the third floor and it's more like an apartment. There's a living area with a balcony, it's own television and a mini bar (that's full – not that I use minibars, but it's nice to know that the hotel trusts its guests, some don't). Then there's a bathroom where everything works, nothing is 'trendy' – meaning a tap is a tap, there's a plug in the sink that I can understand and use and all is well. At the other end of this double aspect 'room' is the sleeping quarters (a wardrobe, double bed, a desk and a flatscreen television plus, oddly, one of those cabinets in which a television is normally found,  but it's empty and surplus to requirements. The floors, throughout the hotel, including the rooms, are marble tiled and it's very quiet. There's also a fairly good wifi.

A late dinner at Da Bruno last night...

There isn't a restaurant, but that's not a problem as my all-time favourite Italian is under five minutes' walk away. There was, however, a decent breakfast offering down in the hotel's basement. The last time I was in Dusseldorf I stayed in the Friends Hotel, which was also a 'boutique' hotel characterised by 'trendy' things. The problem with the Friends was its breakfast offering, which I thought was piss poor. In fact, one of the chief reasons why I am not there now is because I didn't want their breakfast. Here at the Burns Art Hotel it's good: a selection of cereals, cooked meats, pastries, breads, fresh fruit and fresh fruit juices.

One thing did bug me slightly – the tea. It was wrapped up in sachets that were impossible to open so I did without and opted for a small glass of fresh orange juice instead.

It's costing me £280 for three nights, which ain't bad, and if you saw the size of the room you'd be amazed, honestly.