At the front desk of The Durham Hotel, a man in an undersize three-piece suit with a ringmaster’s mustache wants to know where I got my shirt.

It’s a thin cotton button-down, navy blue, patterned with small white petals. I had changed out of a tattered Misfits T-shirt, hoping to blend in like a Ming vase. But with the elegant geometry of the dining room sweeping to my left and this bespoke figure standing before me, I suddenly feel déclassé admitting it came from Urban Outfitters.

“I never think to look there,” he replies with exquisite tact.

When his colleague hands me the keycard to room 516, I gape at my companion in awe. The night before, a Wednesday, we’d gotten the same room number at 21c Museum Hotel. The Durham has 53 rooms and 21c has 125, so the coincidence is not small, and it follows from an even larger one: two boutique hotels opening in former bank buildings downtown, only blocks away from each other, within a four-month span. (And in fact, a third, Aloft, opened downtown last Friday, the second of four Aloft hotels planned in the Triangle.)

21c is an import with several locations. It started in Louisville, Kentucky, when Laura Lee Brown and Steve Wilson decided to funnel their contemporary art collection into a hotel-museum hybrid. The Durham has stronger local ties, with a menu by James Beard Award-winning Chapel Hill chef Andrea Reusing, who owns Lantern. 21c opened in March, with The Durham following in July.

In the days after I stayed at the hotels, when something elusive was bothering me, I kept thinking about that number: 516. Eventually, I turned to the oracle of Google. Of course, searching for numerological significance, I found it. For starters, 516 is a Long Island area code. This meshes with the feeling of having gone somewhere far away, even though the hotels are right next to my office.

In the Bible, Matthew 5:16 says, “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works.” This is certainly an apt credo for 21c, whose contemporary art galleries are open to the public 24 hours a day. Meanwhile, the golden aura surrounding “men” and “work” in the verse resonates with The Durham’s mid-century modern concept, which makes you feel as if you’ve walked into an episode of Mad Men.

Something called Angel Numbers marks 516 as a promise of ongoing financial success. This is right on the money, as the cost of our night’s lodging is around $180 at 21c and around $270 at The Durham. That’s before dinner and cocktails at 21c’s Counting House or The Durham’s rooftop bar. (Its restaurant’s opening date remains unset; the current estimate is about two weeks from now.)

Both buildings have money in their pasts, too. 21c resides in the Hill Building at 111 Corcoran St., a pre-war Art Deco skyscraper that was once the headquarters of Central Carolina Bank and Trust. The Durham, at 315 E. Chapel Hill St., is a palimpsest of flamboyant modernist and Art Deco design; the Home Savings Bank formerly did business behind its fanged façade. Both retain their original bank vaults. 21c uses one as a private lounge, while The Durham’s is on view behind the lobby bar.

Indeed, in both places, wealth is never far from mind. I could afford them on my own dime only for the rarest special occasions, and what stuck with me, more than the blur of good food and drink in beautiful rooms, was a heightened awareness of class. Crossing its lines jarred my everyday perspective on the layer of privilege above me, which I was intruding upon, and the layer below, which I regarded from the unusually lofty perches of fifth-floor rooms and The Durham’s imperious rooftop bar.

To get there, you ascend through an opulent historic building, most of it pay-walled behind keycards, and emerge on top of the world. Cocktail in hand, you gaze down and out over the city. Ranged around you are the silhouette of what used to be called Black Wall Street, the shells of the Jack Tar Motel and Blue Coffee Café, the McDonald’s. From the vantage of New Durham, where it rises from the footprint of the old, you can more clearly see the kinds of fantasies it offers—and what story they tell an evolving city about itself.

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At 21c, a dark shaft of stairs where digital clouds float over mirrors alights in a pale, airy gallery. The reception desk is a part of the show. Artist Claire Shegog has arranged colorful confectionary decorations in mandala-like whorls under the clear tabletop.

The receptionist is friendly and eager to help. She comes from a hospitality background and claims not to know much about modern art, though she certainly talks like a docent. She explains some nearby pieces, including a mirrored cube with moveable magnets, and how people see things differently depending on who they are and where they stand.

Like all employees I encounter, she seems genuinely passionate about 21c’s public-art mission and enamored of its leadership. She loved the last show—well, except for a piece here and there, like the one-man a cappella video of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man.” But she unreservedly loves the new show. It’s “so pretty and Zen.”

I agree. The video, which I revisited on the hotel’s art channel, is insufferable, and if Pop Stars was erratic, Seeing Now, as I wrote in these pages, is thorough and thoughtful.

An elevator door wallpapered with Lucha Libre masks opens onto a long corridor lined with science-fiction light fixtures. My companion finds the number 516 on a glowing disc. As the door opens, a flood of electric purple makes us laugh. Flipping on the overhead lights, the dorm-room black light disperses to reveal chic modernism—one of many examples of 21c’s cheeky, exciting bricolage.

The furnishings quietly hum with rounded white lines and warm metal tones. The floor gives a tastefully kitsch impression of Formica. A padded headboard mimics the walls of the elevators. There are fun things to discover in every nook, from the coquettish rubber ducky in the black-tiled shower to the jokes in the information binder. This is a luxury hotel whose emergency protocols include what to do in the event of a zombie apocalypse.

Down in the bar, evening is falling through large windows. With its freestanding partition, clusters of cubbyholes and generous allotment of art, Counting House feels busy but lucid. The room hovers above you, poised like an avalanche. Sword-like lights dangle inside a glassy cube over an open kitchen. A fluffy white sculpture festoons the ceiling along the length of the barroom. But the life-size pink penguins posed haphazardly throughout the dining room, like eavesdropping waiters, keep the mood grounded and irreverent.

On this crowded Wednesday evening, it’s mainly a blue-blazer clientele. Incongruously, the TV behind the bar plays a muted arm-wrestling competition, scored with downtempo electronic pop. The Little Empire, a Manhattan-style session cocktail (read: less drunk), is syrupy and medicinal. The Southern Side, a mint gimlet, is herbal and fresh, with rosemary bitters. The server is professional but warm, like all of the staff. She invites us to walk around as we wait for food, because “we’re a museum first.”

As (mostly) vegetarians, we’re pleased to find plenty of options, and we order like Dubai oil barons. We call for Griddled Romaine & Cauliflower, Char Roasted Figs (no lardo) and Crispy Pickled Okra. The first dish is savory, sweet and surprisingly hearty. The figs are delectable, with cumin notes in sticks of shortbread. The okra is bar food par excellence, though the largest pieces are a bit woody to chew. The menu is eclectic but rooted in refined Southern comfort food; it’s all very salty but not over-seasoned.

Having already eaten oyster aioli, we chuck out any pretense of vegetarianism and order the Tobacco Tuna Sea Snack, which had local tobacco pressed on it for two days before being doused with olive oil and sea salt. It’s tender, spongy and very rich. So is the silky Parisian Gnocchi, sweet with peach yet pungent with Pecorino and kale. We finish with Sheep’s Milk Cheesecake (a strident dessert, but worth it for the artful branches of candied macadamia nuts) and an $18 digestif of Lucid Absinthe Supérieure. We share it, because regardless of who’s paying, two feels grossly extravagant.

The French absinthe brand, with real wormwood essence, has been legal in the U.S. for less than 10 years. It doesn’t come with a sugar cube or slotted spoon. It reeks of anise and tastes like a thousand licorice jellybeans. It makes me feel a little stony and bright. My companion starts to wonder if a sporty fellow at the bar, who had tried to photobomb us earlier, has an unusually small cranium.

Stepping out to clear our heads, we chat with a night valet. Like the receptionist, he couldn’t abide “Iron Man” but loves the meditative Hans Op de Beeck video that replaced it. He also loves his job, especially after working at fast-food restaurants. He tells us about 21c’s origins, growth and philosophy in a way that makes it clear he feels included in them. He says his manager will sometimes park cars while he takes a break, that the chef won’t give him his shift meal until it’s perfectly plated.

The bar is growing quiet around midnight. Having a Manhattan-like nightcap, the Brown & Bitter, we ask a bartender about the bathrooms, which are clearly visible from the bar. They’re exposed toilets in transparent cubes, like Dada sculpture. The walls become opaque when the lock turns, which has something to do with an electrical current crossing and uncrossing molecules. Is there an issue with people not locking the door as the evening wears on? “All the time.”

We manage to operate the bathrooms, a gimmick that humorously crystallizes 21c’s essential openness and transparency. But we fail to end the night with a 1 a.m. steam bath. We can’t work the controls. We blame the absinthe.

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On first approach, The Durham feels grander and more formal than 21c. The journey to the room has an escalating drama. With the points of the façade hanging above like an inverted crown, your shoes click on painted Moroccan tile. Time starts winding back as you pass an old-fashioned city newsstand and shoeshine stand. Inside, the plush, comfortable dining room radiates red-and-gold power. The elevator is regally slow. The stairs coiled inside the tower where the city’s name hangs in bold block letters give a receding view of the street through windows tall and slim as archer slits.

In the hallway, the angular carpet transitions with swaths of blue, the dominant color in the room. But perhaps because of the build-up, or the expense, or the contrast with 21c, Room 516 feels flat—more bare than understated. There are few striking details to mention. The bed is soft and thick; the furniture mainly amounts to a basic chair and footstool. The only piece of art is a black-and-white optical illusion that is difficult to look at. There’s certainly no rubber ducky.

The rooftop bar is a wooden deck with harsh city views softened by small gardens. About an hour before sundown, it’s crowded and we’re starving. But until the restaurant opens, there’s not a lot even for game pescatarians, though the guacamole and deviled eggs are fantastic snacks. The gazpacho is fruity and tangy, like summer watermelon. And we score an off-menu Carrot Dog (we’d heard mutterings of its existence). For a fat grilled carrot with chow chow in a hot dog bun, it’s unexpectedly satisfying.

At the rooftop’s edge, we devour all the food and chat about Durham development with the couple on the banquette across from us while we wait for our drinks. The happy hour crowd feels a bit older and richer than at 21c—the women tottering on towering cork platforms, the men flashing expensive wristwatches—though it could be a trick of the patrician setting.

We’d heard drinks were slow here. Our first cocktails, a Rob Roy and an Air Mail (a concoction of rum and Prosecco), take 30 to 40 minutes to arrive. The servers, dressed in blue-and-white stripes like sailors, are apologetic but resigned. Though polite and proficient, they seem tenser than the staff at 21c, as if someone in a linen shirt were watching their every move while they tried to navigate flawed systems. The drinks have obviously been sitting somewhere, with the ice melting in the Rob Roy and the fizz flattening in the Prosecco.

At night, the rooftop crowd gets younger and the mood gets looser. We order a cocktail called The Undeniable Truth, plus more guacamole, which takes about 20 minutes. It’s basically a deconstructed martini, with a disc of olive oil floating in salty gin. It’s interesting, but we don’t really like it, and we casually mention this to the server. We’re not complaining—it’s us, not the drink—but she takes it off the bill anyway, which is cool.

It turns out drink service is much quicker if you order from the small indoor area of the roof. Near midnight, the short bar is fully loaded. A man in a linen shirt sits in the middle. As we nurse a last Manhattan, three women with temporary tattoos of pink penguins on their biceps come in. They’re out celebrating a birthday and have just come from Counting House. “When you feel the love in your heart, it appears on your arm,” one explains.

They give me a tattoo. My companion tries to put it on my face with the Manhattan. The bartender looks concerned and says we shouldn’t waste the liquor.

“You really need a glass of water,” he advises.

But he doesn’t offer us one.

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Here’s what I kept trying to figure out: If 21c and The Durham are both luxury hotels with 20th-century aesthetics, why did the second one make me more uneasy?

As it happens, 516 is also the number of hours Moses prayed to enter the Promised Land. This interpretation has a certain clarifying force. When establishments claim to be contributing to downtown life—especially when they presume to take the city’s name—access is always a crucial question.

Before The Durham opened, Reusing, its chef, told Eater.com, “I think that what Durham needs is this place that’s like a community living room,” as if oblivious to the city’s own vibrant culture and the limitations luxury places on community. Anyone can explore 21c’s galleries, regardless of whether they can afford to drink at Counting House, and it’s encouraging that the employees seem so well treated. But there’s really no reason to be at The Durham if you aren’t fairly wealthy.

And the two hotels contextualize the 20th century very differently. 21c’s concept emerges from its vintage architecture, but the hotel is too whimsical and retro-futurist to be a period piece. It invites you to use your imagination. But there’s really only one way to interpret The Durham. It wears its period details like an amber bubble, cultivating nostalgia for the gilt cage of a time when wealth and power were even more starkly delineated than today. However well intentioned, it proffers something we may not even be aware we want: a taste of an era when men of consequence looked down on the world, untroubled by their supremacy.

Bestriding the city with a $12 cocktail, I felt a patriarchal echo. Far below, a working shoeshine stand also served as an aesthetic cue, a gorgeous wallpaper covering the reality of who sat and who shined in the era under reconstruction. Could my fondness for Manhattans really be uncoupled from their faded halo of masculine glamour? Remember the name of the first one I drank at 21c: Little Empire. This is subtle but it matters. What we choose to re-create constitutes us.

21c isn’t immune from the usual criticisms pertinent to luxury. I’d been there for only a few hours when, on the street, a man who looked homeless careened around the corner, compulsively saying, “Hi, hi.” It startled me in a way it usually wouldn’t, piercing the glittering haze of satiation that was already wrapping around me. How many meals could he eat for the cost of several ounces of absinthe? And how long could I stay in this insulated sphere before the question began to sound abstract, or even sanctimonious?

Some images of poverty among the art works at 21c also gave me pause in the luxe setting, at first. But ultimately, these pieces help prevent it from feeling like a passive indulgence. They give context for the issues of class you are confronting, and they stick with you. Provocative, not narcotic, they make 21c feel contemporary and progressive. Even its name, an abbreviation for 21st-century, stakes its claim in the now. The imported hotel’s eclectic, open-ended energy makes it more of a living room for Durham—a room that is alive, in every sense—than the city’s imposing self-elected namesake.

This article appeared in print with the headline “The view from room 516”