When someone first whispered the words “Moustache Luxuria” into my ear, I thought they were taking the mickey. Moustache? Really? It sounded less like a hotel and more like a men’s grooming parlour on a discount app. Luxuria, meanwhile, sounded like a perfume your aunt buys in duty-free at the airport. So, naturally, my expectations were… subterranean.
The run up to the hotel is disarmingly ordinary, the kind of arrival that lowers your expectations just enough to make what comes next feel like sorcery.
The exterior, let’s just say, won’t be appearing on a glossy travel mag anytime soon. It’s more “blink and you’ll miss it” than “grand reveal.” And yet, once your room door opens—oh, sweet baby Ganesh—it’s as though your senses have been strapped to a rocket and fired directly into nirvana.
Now, to be clear, we weren’t just staying anywhere. We had booked the Presidential Suite. And thank heavens we did, because what awaited us was less a hotel room and more an entire lifestyle.
The suite is, to put it bluntly, ridiculous. Ridiculous in the way only the best boutique hotels can be. Every corner screams, “Please take a photo of me. Please.” It’s boho-chic with Zen undertones, done entirely in whites and light greys that make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a curated Instagram grid. The kind of place where you imagine wellness influencers casually sipping matcha and talking about “alignment.”
And then there’s the plunge pool. Inside the suite. Yes, inside. And because someone clearly woke up one morning and thought, “plunge pool? Cute. But what if it had… a fountain?”—well, now it has one. I stood staring at it like a confused cat. Do I swim in it? Photograph it? Sit beside it and sigh dramatically while pretending to be in a Dolce & Gabbana advert? I did all three, obviously.
The layout is borderline decadent. A little seating nook faces the outside pool area—perfect for mornings spent pretending you’re too intellectual for the water, before inevitably diving in.
There’s also a private patio with sunbeds, which is basically code for: “Here’s where you’ll pretend to read a novel while doomscrolling Instagram in your sunglasses.”
The bed itself deserves its own fanfare. Big, pillowy, the kind of bed that swallows you whole. The sort where you think, “Yes, I could live here. I could quit my job, renounce society, and simply exist in this bed.” Around it, sofas and seating areas appear like bonus levels in a video game. Every time you think you’ve explored the suite fully, you stumble upon yet another corner that makes you think, “Oh good lord, this, too?”
And the bathroom. Honestly, the bathroom deserves a Netflix special of its own. Enormous, with a big bath tub in the corner, facing lush greens. They’ve thrown in everything—candles, shower, utility bath accessories—like someone in charge simply muttered: “Let’s just throw heaven into this room and see what happens.” It works. It really, really works.
Outside of the private indulgence, the hotel offers communal joys too. The common pool is not one of those insulting little puddles masquerading as a pool in most modern hotels. No, this one is proper. It looks like it was designed for people who genuinely enjoy swimming, not just bobbing around for Instagram likes.
There’s a small clubhouse with a pool table, a carrom board, a table tennis set and a few books.
What’s more, the hotel is full of quiet corners, and endless little nooks and crannies where you can lose hours simply watching the day go by. Just like the resident cat, who is now my role model, just for the number of winks she catches in a day.
And for those who prefer more communal vibes, Mustache Luxuria remembers its hostel roots. There are well-appointed dormitories for hostel-style living, plus a handful of Superior rooms for those who want comfort without Presidential excess. It’s a clever mix: luxe indulgence at one end, budget-friendly camaraderie at the other.
And the food? Day one: Paneer Lababdar with roti and veg fried rice. Simple, yes, but delicious. The breakfast buffet is less “groaning table in Vegas” and more “sensible but satisfying.” Omelettes, masala dosa, a rotation of Indian vegetarian dishes, brown and white bread, cornflakes, juice, tea, coffee, and a bakery item of the day. It’s not excess. It’s enough. Enough to fuel you until your next plunge pool session.
The staff deserve a shoutout. Piya, Norbert, Aman were genuinely gracious, and helpful.
And then, of course, there’s the location. Moustache Luxuria is well-positioned in Vagator near restaurants and bars, making it easy to slip out for a night of fun before slinking back into your grey-and-white cocoon of bliss. The previous evening we wandered off to Nama, a buzzing local spot—though that’s another review altogether.
When it finally came time to leave, I was gutted. You know that heavy, feeling you get when you’re dragged away from somewhere you’ve grown irrationally attached to? That was me. Sulking in the car like a child being taken home from Disneyland.
So yes, Moustache Luxuria. Ridiculous name. Modest approach. But once you’re inside—especially in the Presidential Suite—it’s sensory overload, Instagram heaven, and luxury without the pomp. One of those rare places that makes you feel smug for discovering it—until you immediately tell everyone else about it.
Like a good moustache, this place grows on you fast—and once it does, you can’t imagine life without it.
Honest Reviews 