Melbourne in winter has an extraordinary ability to convince you that somewhere else, literally anywhere else, would be a better idea than where you currently are. When the wind starts howling up Southbank and the skies settle into their annual fifty shades of grey, even taking the bins out feels like an Arctic expedition. And on this particular weekend, Melbourne was at its wintery worst.

Which is the perfect scenario for a lux staycation.

So, my wife and I checked into the brand-new Hannah St Hotel in Southbank, armed with nothing more than an overnight bag and a mutual agreement to pretend, just for one weekend, that we’d somehow found ourselves holed up in one of those effortlessly cool boutique hotels in the West Village of Manhattan.

The first surprise is that Hannah St doesn’t feel like another anonymous city hotel. It’s the flagship property of TFE Hotels’ premium Collection brand, purpose-built to be more than somewhere to simply rest your head after a conference. Sitting quietly on a Southbank laneway literally under the King St overpass (sooo NYC), it somehow feels tucked away from the city while still being only a short stroll from the Yarra, the Arts Centre and Melbourne’s endless procession of bars and restaurants. Step inside and the New York comparisons keep popping out at you.

The interiors channel the understated confidence of a boutique Manhattan hotel. Warm walnut timbers. Burnished brass. Brown marbled stone. Rich textures. Curated Australian artwork. There are no grand chandeliers trying to impress you or acres of shiny marble screaming ‘luxury’. Instead, everything feels confident. Sophisticated, but not pretentious. A bit like my wife.

Even the rooms resist the temptation to overcomplicate things. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with natural light, the palette is calm without becoming beige, and every detail, from the beautifully stocked minibar to one of the most comfortable king beds I’ve ever slept in, encourages you to do something that’s becoming increasingly rare. And that’s absolutely nothing.

The timing couldn’t have been better because Hannah St’s winter ‘Wind Down’ experience with cult New York skincare brand Malin + Goetz leans wholeheartedly into slowing life down. Our package included breakfast, late checkout, oversized fluffy robes, a Dark Rum candle to take home and, perhaps most importantly, two rum cocktails waiting downstairs. My favourite.

Now, I’m not saying I have a weakness for rum but if rum were a person, it’d probably be listed as my emergency contact.

The cocktail is inspired by the Malin + Goetz Dark Rum fragrance and it tastes exactly like how winter should feel. Rich dark rum, orange curacao, italicus, vanilla and an ingredient I don’t recognise combine into something so ridiculously drinkable that one very quickly becomes two, and then three.

Three somehow evolved into, “Let’s just see what else Ryan, the bartender, can do.”

Ryan turned out to be one of those dangerous bartenders. He doesn’t just make drinks; he talks passionately about them. Each cocktail arrived with a story. Every ingredient had a reason. Before long we were discussing rum like two middle-aged pirates. Eventually I admitted defeat.

“Mate,” I said. “I’m never going to remember this.” Without missing a beat, he grabbed a piece of paper and wrote the recipe down for me. Whether I’ll ever recreate it at home is debatable. Whether I’ll drink enough rum attempting to recreate it is almost guaranteed.

Suitably warmed by rum, we wandered into Coupette Corner Bistro & Bar, where our little New York fantasy really found its rhythm.

Like the hotel itself, Coupette isn’t attention seeking. But that’s mainly because it doesn’t need to be. The dining room hums with the relaxed confidence of a neighbourhood bistro that’s already found its crowd. Couples linger over wine. Friends settle in for long lunches that morph into dinner. The open kitchen buzzes away while staff are attentive without hovering. It’s exactly the sort of place you’d hope to stumble across in the West Village.

And if you’re pretending you’re in Manhattan, there’s really only one way to approach dinner. Three courses. No ifs or buts or what abouts. Accompanied by a bottle of gloriously bold Sicilian red because that’s exactly what we’d convinced ourselves New Yorkers would be drinking on a freezing winter’s night.

The evening slowed to that perfect pace where dinner stops being a meal and becomes an event. We lingered over every course, stretched conversation long after the plates had been cleared and found ourselves planning imaginary overseas trips while sitting less than fifteen kilometres from our own house.

The food struck a balance between refined and comforting. Clever, but it wasn’t trying too hard. Seasonal without telling you seventeen times that it’s seasonal. Every plate arrived looking like it belonged on Instagram before quickly disappearing because, thankfully, it tasted even better than it looked.

The entrees deserved applause, especially the steak tartare and the oysters, always a barometer of a quality establishment. And yet, after all that food, we still found room for dessert despite confidently declaring moments earlier that we were “absolutely stuffed.”

Apparently “absolutely stuffed” is just Aussie for “We’ll definitely have dessert.” “Bring on the bitter chocolate mousse” we cried. We were on a staycation after all.

Outside, Melbourne continued doing its best impression of a walk-in freezer. Inside Coupette, with another splash of Sicilian red finding its way into our glasses, we’d completely forgotten what city we were actually in. For one perfect evening, Southbank had become SoHo.

We eventually staggered upstairs, lit our Malin + Goetz Dark Rum candle, and sank into our aforementioned comfy bed.

All too soon it was the next morning, and I was instantly reminded why hotel pools deserve far more respect than they receive. There’s something wonderfully restorative about wandering through a hotel in an oversized fluffy robe, clutching a coffee while pretending this is simply how you begin every day.

The pool, steam room and sauna quickly washed away whatever lingering affection the previous evening’s rum still had for my bloodstream. A few lazy laps. A spell in the steam. Twenty minutes in the sauna.

For twenty-four glorious hours we’d completely bought into the illusion. No emails. No deadlines. No grocery shopping. No washing. No real life.

You don’t need passports, airport lounges or a twelve-hour flight to trick your brain into believing you’ve escaped. Sometimes all it takes is a brilliantly designed hotel, a bartender willing to write down his rum recipe, an unforgettable dinner, a bottle of Sicilian red, a fluffy robe, an indoor rooftop pool and permission to pretend, if only for a weekend, that you’re somewhere else entirely.