I should have been wearing this lovely, float of a gown when I walked through the Beverly Hills Hotel on my recent trip to LA rather than the red jeans and striped shirt of a french longshoreman I had on. I didn't expect to be in what had only been an imagining of what the place could be when we happened on it as we drove through an odyssey of Hollywoodland. We parked on a side street near to the bungalows and sauntered up the path, penetrating the environs. Security did approach us, but saw that we meant no harm, and so were left to wander the glamorous grounds uninterrupted.
I have read about the hotel so many times in the pages of the magazines that I read monthly. More than what the Chateau Marmont seemed to be, which was nearly inpenetratable, the Beverly Hills Hotel continues to reflect a by-gone era of Hollywood legend. It reminded me as we walked through the grounds and then the hotel itself of the Caribbean Hilton in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I have the good fortune to be there fairly regularly as my sister lives on the island, and soccer often takes us to San Juan for matches, and the Hilton is our place to stay. Each is timeless, yet still full of a time that is long gone.
The lobby was regal, but not overstated. The creamy walls and golden light made everyone to look a movie star. We sat near a fireplace in a placement of chairs close to the path that partygoers took to reach their destination. Quiet filled every corner with hush. And the months of a long, cold midwestern winter peeled off of me. We moved to watch the long red carpet, perhaps in hope to catch a glimpse of someone; instead, dark, liveried sedans dropped off anonymous, though very evidently monied, guests of the party. My friend tried to take a snapshot of the red carpet, but here we encountered our only 'don't' of the hour we spent nestled in the past.
Leaving the hotel, we all walked the red carpet and out on to the street to find our car parked, not valet'd. I felt ... grand.