Staying at a Four Seasons isn’t sleeping in a hotel. It’s sleeping in the cold war between a Saudi dreamer and a Seattle coder—and somehow, waking up refreshed.
Would I stay again? Yes. But I’d love to see the owner’s group chat. four season hotel owner
You never see them at check-in. Their photos aren’t in the lobby. But as I lay on the Frette linen of a Four Seasons suite in Bora Bora, watching the sunset turn the overwater villas to gold, I couldn’t stop thinking about the two men who own my pillow. Staying at a Four Seasons isn’t sleeping in a hotel
You feel Prince Al-Waleed the moment you walk in. He’s the one who demands the lobby smell like custom-brewed black tea and vetiver. He’s the reason the doorman remembers your name after 24 hours. The Prince bought the company out of bankruptcy in the ‘90s and injected Arabian Nights ambition into its veins. Without him, you wouldn’t have the gold-leafed infinity pool or the porter who irons your t-shirt for $12. He is the theater . Their photos aren’t in the lobby
Do you care that your $1,200/night room is jointly owned by a Saudi prince who loves flamboyance and a tech hermit who loves spreadsheets? You should.