Los Angeles Layoff

Adobe doesn't reimburse for room service charges.

And since I couldn't get food and stay put in the gigantic bed, in my enormous room with the humongous pearly white mosaic-tiled bathroom equipped with the spacious double head gym shower and  family-sized soaking tub, I had to either starve or get out of bed.

I'm not big into ordering room service, (except at the Montage Laguna Beach where I never pass up a late-night heirloom tomato, rocket, and fresh mozzarella salad). But sometimes, when I'm all alone in a strange part of LA, the thought of sitting alone in a Gordon Ramsay Signature Restaurant, or venturing out amongst the tattoo parlors and seedy strip clubs to find a bite (of food mind you), is more than I can bear.

So I ate a cliff bar, discovered in a dark corner of my computer bag, and turned on Law & Order SVU before committing to an action plan.

After landing at LAX, I queued up for a taxi,  got in the green ford that pulled up, and told the driver I was headed to the London West Hollywood Hotel.

"You must be a doctor." He seemed pretty confident about his diagnosis. I thought about saying yes. It's kind of flattering to be mistaken for a doctor.

"No, why?"

"There's a big hospital down the street from the London. We get a lot of folks in here for medical conferences."

He was excited to find out I worked for a Adobe and traveled frequently. Travel talk has a way of geting people to open up.

"My mom took us to Somalia in the 90s to visit our grandmother. Have you seen the movie Black Hawk Down? That happened while we were there."

I had seen the movie, but it had been at least ten years. I remember violence, epic music, and helicopters crashing. This was just about when the second Iraq war was beginning. Nathan, one of my roommates, watched Blackhawk Down a couple times a week, I guess as a way to vicariously participate with his military buddies.  He couldn't wait to get called up, so until he did, he spent his time playing first person shooter games and watching war movies.

My driver recounted a harrowing journey as a refugee making his way across the boarder into Kenya. "My mom told us to hide our U.S. Passports so no one would try to steel them or kill us."

For dinner, I ended up at a taco shop down the street. Grilled Ahi tacos and Mexican coke for about $12.

The London is designed with sensory pleasures in mind. If a surface is not highly buffed or shiny, it is most likely covered in luxurious pliable velvet.

The velvet can be found in all the guest-room hallways. Immediately upon seeing it, I wondered whose job it was to comb the velvet back into tidy swirls after guests (like me) ran their fingers in it for the entire length of the hallway.

Back in my room, I returned to Law & Order SVU.

The next morning I saw Kelsey Grammer, of Cheers and Frasier fame,  in the lobby promoting his new show on FX. He wore a suit coat, jeans, and white tennis shoes.

His nonchalant style influenced me. For my work day I wore New Balance with a black J Crew suit coat I picked up in New York a few weeks back.

The highlight of the Adobe conference was the hotel's pumpkin-flavored macaroons served after the meetings.

When I returned to the office, I was promptly laid-off.

The Field Marketing Department, it seems, is merging with offices in San Jose, Chicago, and New York. I was the last-in, first-out employee; and as such, am currently on the hunt for a company that will reimburse room service charges.

Second Time's a Charm: Pelican Hill Resort

"The recession has been very good for my incentive trips." I stabbed another hand-made cheese ravioli bathed in sage butter sauce. "We've gained access to 5-star resorts we never could have afforded before 2007."

Simaan, Regional Sales Director for Pelican Hill Resort smiled and nodded his head. Perhaps it was bad taste to mention my gain from the resort's inability to meet original revenue projections.

Ever the consummate host, Simaan played along: "I know! Can you believe the rate we're offering?"

My first visit to the resort was in 2009, months after Pelican's grand opening. I stopped overnight on my way from Borneo to Salt Lake.  There I was, an under-30 in jeans and a filthy t-shirt from Urban Outfitters after 24 hours on a plane and a week in the sweaty tropics.

"Good evening sir. Welcome to"(and then, almost in a whisper)"Pelican Hill." A exquisitely tanned staff member in a brown suit drove me to my room in a $300,000 Bentley. He referred to me as sir at least five times before we made it to my room. It was just too much, and just way too formal.

Simaan says shortly after the opening, the hotel was unsure of its culture. He speculates that  some hasty hiring decisions led to inexperienced staff who assumed an elegant resort required uptight behavior.

After two years of the resort getting comfortable in its own skin,  I'd say it is now confident and relaxed to the perfect degree.

At sunset, Simaan and I walk out to a terrace overlooking the greens of a golf course gently sloping down to the Pacific.

"I make sure to come out here at least once a day for this view." Simaan panned the horizon, pointing out Catalina Island. "I've never been, but guests say this view reminds them of the hills above Florence."

"Tuscany meets the Pacific." I added. "Not bad at all."

I Swear I Saw Virginia Madsen in the Spa: Bacara Resort

     


I ask Brian, the regional sales manager hosting me, where the name Bacara comes from: "Its a mash-up really, between the Santa Clarita Islands out in the channel and Santa Barbara."

I had arrived at Bacara Resort in a rental car about an hour before. I drove through a barrel-vaulted gate and into a cloister of a courtyard where a nice young valet took my keys and informed me overnight parking costs $24 dollars.

On the way to my room in a golf cart I spoke with the bellboy. He has been employed for two years while finishing his degree at UC Santa Barbara. He's quitting next week to pursue his dream of  bumming around Australia for a year.

In my room, I was welcomed by a sales kit,  the cover of which shows a woman lounging on a pool chair. She's wearing a loosely-draped bathrobe, with no bikini top. I looked out my window at the ocean and the the private balconies next to mine. Topless, and a tad leathery, my fifty-year old neighbor seemed to have drawn inspiration from the sales kit, as she sat playing cards with her partner.

This is not your grandma's hacienda-style resort. It's fresh, it's stylish, and the bath products are organically amazing.

Bacara is also monastically quiet.

In my opinion, the only thing interrupting Bacara's tranquility, is a series of notes similar to the kind you might find in a roach motel.

Note 1 in my guestroom: "Dear Guest, Please do not remove candles from this silver tray. Should the tray turn up missing upon check-out, your account will be charged $138 USD."

Note 2 in the spa locker room: "Dear Guest, Please return your bathrobe and slippers to the spa attendant. If these items are not accounted for, your account will be charged $200 at check-out."

Bacara is a 5-Star Resort. Would anyone staying at a place like this think silver trays and bathrobes are free? It's tacky. But maybe on a positive note, it's also a little small town.

I could also just be oversensitive. As we were touring the spa, I swear I saw Virginia Madsen lounging in the pre-treatment area. The notes don't seem to bother her.

I Sat Next to Viggo Mortensen: A Visit to Bacara & Pelican Hill

California has an impressive independent hotel scene.

Last week I took a quick trip to scout out a hotel for my January 2012 meeting. I flew into LAX early Thursday morning, and drove to Santa Barbara for a tour and a night at Baraca Resort. Friday morning, in a downpour and my car heater on max, I drove back the way I came, past LAX, down to the Newport Coast to have a look at Pelican Hill.

Saturday, on the way home, I sat next to Viggo Mortensen. I've had a few people tell me I look like him, but I resisted the urge to ask what he thought. We did not converse during the flight. When we unbuckled our seat belts and stood up, he asked me one question, pointing to the overhead bin: "Is this your bag?"

All I could say was, "No." Because, well, It wasn't my bag.

Montage Laguna Beach: 75 degrees of January paradise.

I'm searching for a warm-weather resort to accommodate a meeting of 200 people next January.  Montage Laguna Beach hosted this particular program last week. Corporate culture dictates that we don't go to the same place two years in a row.

This morning, after several suggestions that fell flat, my boss asked, "Are Montage properties just so nice that we can never equal them?"

I dodged the question, but I should have responded, "Yes, I'm afraid so."

Four Seasons Resort Santa Barbara: old money, simple pleasures.

My cousin Deborah got married about fifteen years ago. Her wedding inspired honeymoon talk amongst the younger admiring cousins. At her reception, held in a church gym, we spoke with each other about fairytale European capitals, New York City, Hawaii, and little huts over lagoons in Bora Bora. These were not very original honeymoon destinations, and most likely locations we had seen in movies or TV shows.

Our musings ended, however, when the new bride described a Four Season's Hotel her in-laws had once visited. With a giggle, and a wink, and a certain charm I would ascribe almost exclusively to Jane Seymour's character in  The Scarlet Pimpernel, Deborah imparted her wisdom, and added, "I've always dreamed of staying in a Four Seasons. One day," she glanced devotedly to her husband,"Matt will take me there."

I left the reception that night with a sure knowledge that Four Seasons hotels and resorts were the most luxurious, the most expensive, and the most sought-after honeymoon destination on the planet. 

The problem is that now that I have visited and stayed in a few Four Seasons, they don't quite stack up to the impossible ideal I created that night oh so many years ago.  

Last week I stayed in the Four Seasons Resort Biltmore Santa Barbara.

---

As I enter my room,  I compare it to the imaginary Four Seasons rooms in my head.  Why doesn't my room come with a club chair and cashmere throw next to my very real personal fireplace? Where is my high-speed wireless internet? And how about . . . I hear a knock on my door. Catering delivers a fruit and cheese amenity which rapturously captures my attention for the next fifteen minutes.

I walked outside, following the sound of crashing waves to the ocean. A street runs between the Hacienda-style resort and Butterfly Beach. The perfect hotel would have direct beach access, I start to think. And then, astonishingly, I realize that the road adds an exclusive neighborhood feel to the resort.

Locals, just getting off work, park by the side of the road, zip up wetsuits and run with surfboards into the ocean.  In the golden twilight, they bob up and down next to black cormorants, waiting for the ideal, or near ideal wave.

I cross the road back to the resort. Elaine Hu, Director of Sales, booked me for a 5:00 p.m. spa appointment.

Halfway through the treatment, at the point when you to flip onto your back, my therapist asks how I'm doing. I catch a glance of the fireplace and the gauzy curtains billowing in the evening breeze. I hear the ocean. I mumble in my trance-like state:

"I feel like." False start. I try again, "I feel like I'm in an alternative univer . . . no, that's not right. . ." 

Nancy, my therapist, helps: "Like you're in an altered state?" 

I sigh, "Yes, that's what I mean."

---

The next morning at 5:00 a.m. I meet Connie and Ashley in the lobby. Chipper as ever, Elaine offers us coffee, croissants, and orange juice. 

An hour later in LA traffic, I reflect upon a quiet, peaceful restfulness lingering somewhere in my lower back and scalp. I miss my quiet little neighborhood up north as I rush south.