Hotel Claska Tokyo
Open the web site for Hotel
Claska and a gauzy David Hockney-like pop-up swims up onto your screen.
In the center floats a checkered art-nouveau building surrounded by ominous
clouds that recalls an early work by Frank Gehry.
Little noticed, however, are the busesequally artfully rendered,
but nevertheless actual fume-spewing city busesparked in a depot
in the foreground. And thus begins our adventure to Claska, Tokyo's
only boutique hotel.
On the left side of the pop-up is the Chinese character for kurashi
(living or livelihood), on the right a bilingual invitation to enter.
Clicking on English the following statement appears: The
many answers to the question How to live.' (Moving
over to the Japanese section, later, we learn the origin of the name Claska:
Dou kurasu ka? in Japanese means How to live? Or
How best to live?) Trembling, we push on. From the Concept
page we learn that Claska is where adults come to play and
that there is a Dog Man dog salon on the first floor.
Located in a pricey residential area on Meguro Dori miles from any train
station or department store, decent restaurant or boutique, the hiparrati
arrive in their two-door late-model sports cars, expectant Bazenji panting
in the back seat.
While checking in they and the pooch are pampered over by front desk
persons in crisply tailored Italian slacks and jackets with a white dress
shirt open at the collar. The look is completed with highly coifed hair
and the hint of expensive cologne or perfume. They flit in and out of
the politest verb tenses while clicking away at their IBM mouses, pausing
to glance reassuringly at the client every so often. It is then rumored
that there are guests in the lobby more famous than those now checking
in. Heads turn.
In the lobby are a DJ booth and the aforementioned dog salon, plus an
overseas book store essence Powered by Hacknett.'
Upstairs, every room is different and idiosyncratic. Claska was the brainchild
of Tei Shuwa of Intentionalities, which is best known for its line of
cooking appliances; and the British design firm Tomato, whose clients
include Nike and MTV.
In a previous life, the hotel was a drab 1960s era business hotel. Now
it has nine guest rooms that range in price from 10,500 to 84,000 yen
($97-$775) a night.
The elevator is vaguely art deco, a dark red temple that glides silently
up and down; the fifth floor hall is hushed with off-white walls. We enter
Room 503, which has perhaps the largest bed we have ever seen. The bell
person slides noiselessly out of the room. To the right are the bathroom
and toilet, which are in full view behind a wall of clear glass. In the
front of the room spreads a window that affords a view into the center
of Tokyo. The room is all soft wood and stainless steel and lovingly designed
boxes filled with among other items a matchbook with ten blue-tipped matches.
After the bullet train ride up from Kyoto, a shower is in order. Herbal
Amino Shampoo (Awake), Herbal Amino Conditioner (Refresh),
and Handmade Organic Soap all eagerly await.
After using up much of Meguro Ward's daily water supply, we close
the curtain, crank up the AC, and spread out on the bed after lengthy
consideration of which part of it to use. Below, the traffic thrums along
Meguro Dori, and buses squeal and heave into parking spaces in the depot
as we ponder who also may have once used this massive bed.
Again, from the web page's Concept section: The
many answers to this question [how to live'] led to the birth
of a hotel that has no equal, Claska. Paradise has been found,
and it is waiting for you on Meguro Dori.
C. Ogawa
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