Pink Dream
Thoughts on the Madonna Inn
Jordan and I walked in fairly early in the morning for a Sunday, but the main dining area was already full, people tucked tightly together around the copper circular bar and placed about the room in an organized chaos of tables, the servers wearing hot pink. We were put at the bar, and had breakfast. At this point it wasn’t so much a wonder to me. Yes, I thought it was hilarious and fun, and sure, the carpets were covered in bright pink flowers and every piece of wood was carved into a gaudy wildness, but beside that, it didn’t seem like much. Just some cheap playful decorations.
But then, after we ate our breakfast, Jordan took me around the whole place — around rounded walls beside boulders, leaded windows, marble, carved walls, and pink everywhere.
As we went from place to place, walking up and down staircases that you couldn’t notice until you were right in front of them, I started to get the feeling as though something were off. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but had the similar sensation of a lucid dream. I was looking around, desperate to make sense of the logic between each boulder being lit by a crystal chandelier with pink bulbs, or the old and worn pink booths laden with hanging leaves, real or fake, it didn't matter. It seemed irrelevant because even as each wall and area was so distinct from the next, it all blended seamlessly, making me question what it was that I saw. None of it made any sense, and I just couldn’t stop staring at it all. Wooden grapes, a three foot bunny rabbit, maybe the son of Harvey, greeting you beside the front fireplace. At one point Jordan laughed and pointed to a wall of photos.
“There’s Mr. Madonna,” she said.
A tall man with a short sleeve button up tucked into his blue jeans and a large white stetson hat. A man of the central coast, a man who made his money building state roads and ranching, and now who is known for building this strange 110 room hotel, each room distinct from the other. Alex Madonna, along with his wife Phyllis, had for many years wanted to open up a hotel. It was, as Madonna’s son-in-law Clint Pearce once said, “a passion project,” and a dream.
And in all honesty, no matter how many descriptions I throw into your head here will not really capture much of the surreality of this place. Simply put, Madonna’s dream turned into a walking dream of chaotic pink wonderland and an idealized California rancher’s life. There really is nothing like it. And that, the distinct individuality of this place, is as culturally American as you could possibly get—a rancher building a hot pink dream.
After Jordan gave me the tour of the place, we sat down at a corner bar to read and to write. Ross of pink chairs which had been placed inside due to the rains were slowly being filled by people in suits. We realized quickly that it was a wedding. We moved tables to be slightly closer as we sipped on a cocktail. Eventually the bride walked down a curving staircase onto a stage. They shared no vows. Their friend, the officiant, spoke in somber declarations and attempted and failed to get the guests laughing. Eventually the ceremony ended with a gentle kiss and their wide and bashful smiles. These people were clearly not gregarious or eccentric—they were just getting married in the most eccentric place in California. And, for some reason, it just made sense for us, walking around this place, to happen upon something as personal and beautiful as someone’s wedding.
If you're reading this and live in the Bay or LA, and need a getaway, just drive up to the Madonna Inn. Nothing is quite like it.
