And Vienna does them very well, waltzing visitors around on a grand tour of 18th- and 19th-century neoclassical grandeur. You know, the powdered-wig operatics, the dirndl-stretching apfelstrudel, Freudian slips in high-arched coffeehouses, the Harry Lime noir of The Third Man, and the prancing ballet hooves of Lipizzaner. Set the scene Many people come to Vienna looking for the clichés.
Oh, and the hotel’s ensuite bakery does the softest, flakiest sourdough croissants in town. But mainly because this is a lovingly designed, fully homegrown, and very reasonably priced (from $245 per night) hotel that gives guests a vivid insight into contemporary Viennese life while being swooningly infatuated with 1920s Paris (if Midnight in Paris had a sequel here, Motto would have surely featured, Owen Wilson hobnobbing in the lobby with Klimt and Jung). Why book? For the elevators with old-fashioned arrows indicating the floors, the top-floor view down into a stairwell that unfolds like a paper concertina, and the wrought-iron-balcony, fin-de-siecle glimpses of Vienna.
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