Heartbreak Hotels

Where to check in when you need to check out.

WORDS: CHRISTINA PÉRÈZ
ART: LAN TRUONG

Hotel Californian, Santa Barbara, California

The Hotel Californian has been open for two months. It feels unlived-in, like a model home. The tiles in the arched entranceway echo under foot; there’s not so much as a smudge on the terracotta floors. In the lobby, the patterned throw pillows that line the tufted sofas have a stiff, just-out-of-the-box vibe. They look like they’ve never been leaned on, never felt the weight of a body crush their soft insides. Like no one has ever thrown herself into them, face-first, to cry.

The hotel’s opening is kind of a big deal. It’s been heralded by the Santa Barbara tourism board as a symbol of the revitalized waterfront; a beachfront beacon for the tourists who might otherwise stick to the bougier stretches of State Street uptown. It is gorgeous. Designed to look old, it seamlessly blends with the Spanish Colonial Revival buildings that define the town—red-tiled roof, white-washed stucco walls. The interiors are a fashionable mix of Mission-era meets Middle East.

There are 121 guest rooms—many of which have their own terraces, fireplaces, and egg-shaped tubs. The rooms, like most of the hotel, are decorated in a palette of gray and white accented by jewel tones. Moorish-inspired, custom-made tiles form intricate patterns on the walls.

There is a pale pink plaza with a fountain, a spa meant to evoke a hammam, a restaurant helmed by a big-deal chef. There is also a roof deck with red umbrellas and a pool, as well as views of the ocean, city, and the Santa Ynez Mountains beyond. The shell of the original Hotel Californian, built in 1925, was repurposed for the new building’s facade. Still, there are no ghosts or secrets left in the walls. It is a slate that’s been wiped clean. A party waiting to start.

From PARADISE: Vol.2

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I arrive at half past noon, too early for the official 3PM check-in time. I’m tender and puffy from two flights and an early morning wake up call twelve hours before. A twenty-something with aggressively white teeth takes my bags and sends me down to the public beach to wait. It’s early November, the time of year when New York has just started to suck, and the last-gasp beauty of early fall has given way to skeleton streets and bitter skies. But here the sky is clear and bright, an unwavering 75 degrees. Mop-headed palm trees sway jauntily in the golden light.

I reach the edge of the beach and sink into the sand. I’m still in my New York clothes—black boots, black jeans, a puffy black anorak. I light a cigarette, using my coat to shield the wind.