Feature

15 On Orange: A Hotel Haven

It’s always a little strange receiving an invitation to spend time at a hotel just down the road from where you live, but I’m a real sucker for a Godzilla-sized bath and minty chocolates on my pillow. So when I was afforded an invitation to spend the night at the newly refurbished African Pride 15 on Orange Hotel, I jumped at the chance for a little stay-cation.

I arrive at the hotel before Mad Dog (who’d gone to The Assembly to suss out his handpoking terrain for the evening at Zebra & Giraffe’s album launch) and immediately jump into the plush, down duvet like a 10-year-old. I pray that the splintering sound I hear is a bed spring doing its job.

The en suite room, roughly the size of my flat, boasts linear, polished and tasty features but as my hands gravitate towards the minibar to explore said features, I’m summoned by Mad Dog who’s circling in the lobby.

On our way back to 306 we pass a discarded snow-white hotel slipper, chilling in the hallway. Clearly someone was in a hurry. What’s threatening to be a #Totally #Amazing #Sunset entices us to the empty roof/pool deck where I take obligatory cityscape selfies and wonder where the hell the cocktail bar is.

Mad Dog’s responsibility means our leisurely dinner at Salon is more of a competition between the two of us to see who can wolf down our pasta faster. Luckily Daily Fix’s Section Editor and my sometimes partner in Cuervo crime, Jessica Manim, is there to referee. It ends in a tie. Al dente all the way.

Saturday morning dawns and I wonder if Myprodol is something that room service can hustle. I arrange a late checkout, which affords us a long, lazy buffet breakfast in a much busier Salon. Now buffet brekkies aren’t really my thing because they’re more like culinary mind games disguised as the most important meal of the day. Salon gives me the option of pretty much everything – from apricot compote to a cheese board where every slice is a gamble – laid out in front of me on porcelain platters.

My attempt at being creative with fruits that aren’t in season result in an unlikely and ungodly combination of kiwi slices drenched in granadilla yoghurt atop Rice Krispies that form a weird kinda goop. I should’ve just stuck to good ol’ bacon.

Back in the room Mad Dog suffers from acute claustrophobia so we go on a mini Long Street cocktail mission before returning to the hotel’s Suntra Spa on the 7th floor. The room is perfectly prepared and dimly lit for our full body Swedish massages and I watch in total amusement as Mad Dog’s face changes to a look of utter horror as we’re asked to take our clothes off and get under the sheet, after our masseuses leave the room.

I get the gangsta masseuse who kneads my body like a Jason Bakery Sourdough Rye loaf for an hour, and we check out feeling rejuvenated, albeit slightly tender. I pick up a pamphlet for the Suntra Spa on the way out and I see that their prices rival almost any commercial spa in Cape Town, which is great for locals who’re searching for a decent deal on a top class treatment.

I’ve long frequented the bar at 15 on Orange and now the Suntra Spa gives me an excellent excuse to pop in more often.