I left New York for California on 31 March. I’ve driven over 2000 miles in my Toyota Corolla rental since then, stayed in hostels, up a tree, in a five star resort and in a couple of private homes and I’m now back in Los Angeles, after exploring the Central Coast, Venice & Santa Monica, San Francisco, Marin County, Palm Springs and the Coachella Festival.
Frankly, I’m exhausted.
But that doesn’t seem to be a problem because I am now happily ensconced in the pink parallel universe of The Beverly Hills Hotel, surely the only hotel in the world where the city was named after the hotel and not vice versa.
This is a hotel that makes cossetting an art form. From the valet parking guys who don’t wince at my desert dust covered Toyota filled with battered luggage to the receptionist who greets me by name before I even say hello, there’s no moment of my stay that doesn’t seem to have been anticipated. I may not be one of the famous faces that I recognise eating later in the iconic Polo Lounge and drifting onto the terrace of the chic, low-lit Nineteen 12 bar, but I may as well be.
I head outside and immediately recognise the cabanas & the pool, surrounded by lemon trees and their drifting scent, from countless photo shoots. I’ve only been here a few hours, but I’m fast coming to the conclusion that this isn’t a hotel. It’s a living legend.
LLG is a guest of The Beverly Hills Hotel