Reviews of 101 Hotel, Reykjavik, Iceland

Review of 101 Hotel, by John Weich

For the past decade Reykjavik has slowly nestled into a cozy tourism niche that appeals to travelers on both sides of the Atlantic. What began in the early nineties as a quirky weekend novelty for trailblazers en route to Europe on the always-affordable Icelandair has since grown into a funky destination of its own right. Which is to say, it is no longer a frontier destination. And now that Reykjavik has grown up from Podunk to veritable getaway, travelers have license to judge it by European and North American capital city standards.

In this light, Reykjavik still leans quite heavily on its novelty factor and, like Copenhagen and Oslo, has gorgeous scenery once you move beyond city limits. Its all-night clubbing scene and surprisingly exquisite cuisine are every bit as bracing as Scandinavia staple Stockholm, and its spas, particularly the now world renowned Blue Lagoon, are as a whole better and more plentiful than those in Budapest. The number of well-designed cafes can be counted on a single hand, but that's no worse than in Starbuck-heavy American metropolises or the European political capital Brussels. Its museums and shopping, however, would make even a Bostonian laugh. And its hotels, well, this is where the city is most sorely lacking. Until now.

It is amazing how a single hotel can put a city on the map and attract a whole new traveler demographic all on its own. For a while, among a certain category, Hotel Costes was Paris, just as The Met was London, 717 Amsterdam and The Mercer New York City. In Reykjavik, 101 Hotel, which opened this week, is destined to have a similar pull.

Named after the fashionably central postcode in which it is located, 101 is the first ambitious boutique hotel to open up in the Icelandic capital. In fact, it is the first Icelandic boutique hotel period, and the only one that moves beyond the limited scope of backpacker and businessman. Up to now, the most discerning travelers have had to settle for the smoky languor of the Holt and the sprightly decadence of the Borg. In contrast, 101 is all Nordic minimalism and, adhering to the principles introduced by Ian Shrager and his progeny more than a decade ago, is situated in a nondescript former office block and promotes a sleek bar as its epicenter.

The wait has been long. Rumors of the 101 began a few years back when Design Hotels, a loose consortium of independent hip hotels the world over, published a few vague quips and even vaguer pictures in its annual catalogue. It wasn't much, but it was enough to spur interest, precisely because Reykjavik's alternatives were so dour. In retrospect, the hype was premature. The problems with contractors, imports and unexplained internal issues that subsequently followed resulted in a number of muffled postponements. The August 2002 grand opening was cancelled without alerting the press or announcing a new opening date. The heavily trafficked winter season came and went, but 101 was nowhere to be seen, as camouflaged as the 'hidden' trolls so common to popular Icelandic idiom and mythology.

Upon arriving in Reykjavik my expectations, like everyone else's who has been following the drama from its start, were high. Not least of all because the hotel's owner and decorator, Ingibjörg Pálmadóttir, who has acquired fame in her home town as both an interior designer and as the daughter of one of Iceland's wealthiest families, had assured me the year before that there would be no skipping corners.

Pálmadóttir did not cut corners and the hotel, at least in terms of design, meets if not exceeds expectations. It is stark and minimalist with a color palette of volcanic blacks and grays, but it avoids frigidity mainly thanks to the heated American oak flooring that stretches across the hotel's entire five-story expanse, save for a bit of carpet here and there. You'll be hard-pressed to find any baubles or frills, and there's little art hanging on the wall. Pálmadóttir: 'I hate things like mass-produced prints hanging on the walls. I'd rather let the building speak for itself.' The emphasis, rather, is on spatial excess and a high attention to craftsmanship, which explains away at least some of the delay.

101 is housed in the former headquarters of the Icelandic Social Democratic Party, built in the 1930s, and overlooks the Supreme Court, the House of Culture and, from the top floors, the solitary but majestic Mt. Esja on the other side of the bay. The rooms are light and airy, thanks mainly Pálmadóttir's decision to allow the bedrooms to flow into the bathrooms rather than separating the two with a wall. In fact, the bathrooms are 101's greatest attribute: all have oak floors, large walk-in showers with enormous showerheads and, in most cases, freestanding tubs.

The rooms boast a no-nonsense layout; what you see is what you get: a bed, a comfortable chair, a desk and a lot of empty space. The only object that strays from the strict, sober color scheme is the inside of my television cabinet, which is a Blue Lagoon blue, literally, which would be a fitting tribute to the geothermal spa had the hotel stocked the medicine cabinets full of its products. That they didn't should be considered a missed opportunity to bourgeon 101's profile as the most Icelandic of Reykjavik's hotels. The rooms are further kitted out with DVD players, large televisions and tasteful blankets and throws. It's anything but cluttered.

As things go, boutique hotel etiquette calls for the action to take place in the bar, and 101 is no different. Like the rest of the hotel, Pálmadóttir has made more out of less, and the narrow bar seems much bigger due to high walls and a glass ceiling that looks up onto an art installation by the owner's sister. There is a fireplace in the lobby and a billiard room, two conference rooms, a small gym and a high-gloss unisex Jacuzzi and sauna downstairs. There isn't, however, a restaurant, and for anything more substantial than a bar menu you'll have to dine elsewhere. Which is okay I suppose, because at least now you have a room you'll want to return to when your dinner is over. This might be a small step for mankind, but it's a giant step for Reykjavik.