Hotel Marcel, Tweed, & The Case Of The Missing Underpants

Let me declare at the outset that the incident of the vanishing underpants was not the fault of the Hotel Marcel.

For what could the courteous staff of that recent addition to New Haven’s tourist industry do to help such a confused guest? (Note: The confused guest in this instance was yours truly.)

But first I should back up a little and provide context, something always helpful in any tale about underpants.

From our home in East Rock, I had booked the night (for $159 on booking.com), in the structure designed by the modernist architect Marcel Breuer for the Armstrong Rubber Company before it became the Pirelli Tire Building before it became the first hotel in the nation to be energy self-sufficient – and, by the way, rated Excellent on travel websites.

To this guest, the lofty assessment seems accurate. A client, if she or he were so inclined, could lick the floors, the place is so pristine.

The reason my wife Suzanne and I could make our own judgment on the Marcel was that we had no beds in our house. Movers had packed them up along with all the other furniture, to prepare for the arrival of a crew of floor refinishers.

And the reason we were there for just one night (considering the floor job spanned several days) is because we were leaving the next morning from Tweed on Avelo to visit family in Charleston, S.C. But, I see now in detailing our itinerary I’m straying too far from the main point of today’s symposium, meant to advise and comfort readers who worry that they, too, someday could find themselves in my shoes but unexpectedly without the intimate apparel that civilization normally requires.

At 7 p.m., as Suzanne and I contemplated our first taste of the Hotel Marcel’s cuisine, I noticed that I had packed no skivvies. This was a result, I surmised, of two phenomena: We had been in a rush to get ready for the floor work, and I am incompetent when packing for a trip.

So, I drove back to East Rock to retrieve any undies I could find that hadn’t been hauled off by the movers. A long shot, indeed. Yet I was able to fetch four clean specimens.

Proud of myself, I drove back to the Marcel, and soon after we were downstairs in the spit-shined bar/dining room, waited on by a charming man named Dan.

We learned he is also a resident of East Rock, and that his ancestors emigrated from Moldova. So we discussed the brutal war in neighboring Ukraine and learned that Moldova, which could also become a target of Russia, is so poor that many elderly residents would prefer a return to communism, because during the Soviet era there was always bread on the table.

Dan brought us bread for our table (delicious focaccia), other well-prepared food, and libations to toast the happy conclusion of my underpants adventure, though at that point I was unaware what scholars of the human condition know well — that underpants adventures never end so neatly.

The night, however, held other anxieties. Room 520 was lovely, and the bed comfortable, but who can sleep soundly when there is a taxi arriving at 5:45 the next morning and, the only weekday flight to Charleston would depart at 7 without waiting for us?

Even so, we had a plan. We set the alarm for 5:15, enough time to dress and then take the dirty clothes we’d worn the previous day down to our car in the parking lot before our taxi ride.

When we reached Tweed all went well. (Avelo employees smile as if they mean it even at 6 a.m.)

We arrived in Charleston after only one hour and forty minutes, and soon at our ultimate destination, a lovely house in the historic district. We unpacked and — you already are aware of this if you have been paying attention – found no underpants in the suitcase.

Where were they? They were, of course, back in the Elm City, in the dirty clothes bag in the back of our car.

A sympathetic member of the family, saying that this probably happens to thousands of travelers every week, suggested I visit a fine haberdashery nearby.

This store, I discovered, has everything a fellow could need, wardrobe-wise, including sportswear, ties, shoes, suits, robes, socks, raincoats, ascots, slippers and cool summer shorts, but when I asked the owner where the display was of what I needed, his expression changed from cheerfulness to near despair.

“You know, it’s the one thing we don’t carry. So sorry. ” I was tempted to reply it is silly to sell trousers if there is nothing to put on under them.

Two stores down the block, I found another men’s shop, and, once there, exactly what I craved. Hence, I had finally solved my grundies problem by paying $69 for two. (If the amount seems to you excessive, you are not alone.)

I put my treasures in a bag and carried them back to the house without incident.

Later, reflecting on the adventure, I remembered a revered high school history teacher who told us, ​“A man in a fine suit of clothes can fool everyone even if he hasn’t changed his underpants for a week.” Now, there’s a history lesson that six decades later I finally mastered.

Lary Bloom’s new book, I’ll Take New Haven: Tales of Discovery and Rejuvenation, though short of underpants adventures, is available at local bookstores or online.