The temptation to join the mobs that throng the Strip for the festive and raucous yearly sendoff receded with sticker shock over hotel prices. Even the most modest digs fetch, at a minimum, $200 for the privilege to bed down in Las Vegas and wake up in another year. Major casinos hover above $500 for the night, which prompted me to investigate Pahrump, a growing (everything in southern Nevada swells with new arrivals in the tens of thousands) community about 100 kms away.
In most countries, a hotel so far removed would not be considered as a practical lodging option. If you travel on I-40 across New Mexico, you will notice the abundance of billboards pimping Tucumcari as the ideal location from which to discover many of the Southwest’s prized attractions and sights. Plan on a four- to six-hour drive, however, as Tucumcari is near nothing.
Pahrump does its share of pimping, too. Except for Nevada’s two most populous counties, Clark and Washoe, home respectively to Las Vegas and Reno, prostitution and brothels are legal in the state. A few minutes on the sultry side of the county line, Pahrump does a nice business in between the sheets. I’ve often wanted to do a feature story on brothels. They don’t make it into the guidebooks, and I have the feeling my editors would reject the idea outright as well.
I made a reservation I ended up canceling. The fun of the New Year celebration, I thought, would quickly evaporate in the interminable traffic jam that no doubt would plague the Strip, even at 1 a.m., a thoroughfare notoriously clogged in the best scenario.
Instead, I easily allowed myself to be tempted by the prospect of a return visit to
Asilomar, a hotel perched at the end of the Monterey peninsula. Several buildings and a main lodge sit in a pine and cypress grove, sheltered from the temperamental ocean by low sand dunes. The property functions as a state of California conference grounds. Typically packed with attendees, a few rooms nonetheless end up on the open market. Securing a summer or fall reservation is improbable, but feasible during the off-season.
The place looks like a resort but does not behave like one. Some units date from the early 20th century; others are more contemporary. They have no television or telephone. No room service either, but meals are served in the dining commons, communal style. The beautiful setting and location are the main draw. Unlike all such hotels on the peninsula, Asilomar keeps its rates very reasonable. The historic rooms never go for more than $130, with a few more for a modern unit. The rates hardly fluctuate seasonally, and include breakfast. Across the way a bit, the Inn at Spanish Bay asks for $350 in winter… Asilomar e-mailed me a $99 offer that was impossible to ignore.
Early New Year’s Eve, we drove up to Cambria, the southern terminus of the Big Sur coast, this impossible meeting of agitated seas and precipitous mountains. Monterey, Pacific Grove, Pebble Beach and Carmel bookend the northern end of it. In between are 160 windy, cliff-hugging kilometers of serene landscape, most of it protected from development.
After a quarter century resisting the idea, I surprised Elisabeth with a visit to the state’s most popular – and by far – state park. Hearst Castle packs tourists with a rapid rotation of four different tours that were sold out even on this chilly December day.
An informed and opinionated (oh joy) guide led us through a fraction of the castle’s 115 rooms. Three guesthouses add another 40. All we saw was a testament to the best money could buy in the 1920s. Rooms were furnished with the best modern conveniences. Floor-to-ceiling (sometimes covering the latter as well) art in a pastiche of styles filled the common areas in mid-18th century fashion. The whole Roman-Turkish-Greek-Italian-French-Moorish effect is a tad suffocating, but hey, it was his dime. Let the man decorate as he wishes!
The estate spreads over hilly terrain. The hilltop residences include two magnificent outdoor and indoor swimming pools. At one time, newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst kept a flock of exotic animals. It was part of a ranch that spread over 1,000km²! The king retained the services of a woman architect to articulate his grandiose vision. Rare even today, the provocative choice was unheard of in 1919. Unlike Charlie Chaplin, Cary Grant, the Marx Brothers, Charles Lindbergh, Joan Crawford and Winston Churchill, I will not be invited to an overnight at Hearst Castle. But prior to drawing plans for the Cuesta Encantada dwellings, Julia Morgan practiced on a smaller scale for a YWCA retreat, now the site of ... Asilomar.
(Note the third metric reference. I resolve – New Year and all – to discard the inane British measuring system in favor of metric expressions, without offering an equivalency. Enough already with the asinine miles, yards, feet and inches, which even hard core advocates do not comprehend.)
My opposition to an outing at Hearst Castle rested on a reluctance to associate with outlandish displays of private wealth. I am more comfortable, although far from entirely, with public riches, as they belong to the national patrimony. European castles were built in exceedingly unequal societies but, for better or for worse, nobility represented the state. I have no problem with the White House as official residence of the president. I have a major issue with the flurry of starter castles or McMansions that are propping up all over the landscape.
A private citizen owned Hearts Castle. It was the site of lavish entertainment during the Depression, a time of extensive misery. Distress at disproportionate individual wealth is not an American character trait. Where many see merit in extravagant compensation, I suspect mistreatment. (Note to the socially conscious: The federal minimum wage has yet to budge after 10 years and attempts to increase it minimally meet with much resistance. Executive pay has exploded. Ten million dollars annually is so commonplace it smacks of insolence. Last year a C.E.O. saw his total financial package surpass the $500-million mark, a historical first. What do you do with just shy of a quarter million dollars an hour? Welcome to feudal capitalism.)
The glorious Big Sur coast traces its recent popularity to alternative lifestyles. The isolation has attracted spirited individuals who valued spaciousness and introspection. It is a place to “find yourself,” to “rejuvenate your senses.”
This is especially so for the moneyed crowd who has an easier time keeping themselves balanced in expensive surroundings. We lunched exquisitely at Sierra Mar perched high above the Pacific. A couple at an adjacent table inquired how often we shuttled between Paris and California. This comment sets the tone at the tony Post Ranch Inn where the least expensive room runs $550 a night. The impeccably self-indulgent will consider, no doubt, a cozy retreat in the Terra Mar house. The Web site warns that there is a 30-day minimum (!) stay. Budget $84,000 for a month and this “finely designed luxury property” is yours to enjoy.
You’d expect exceptional service in such rarefied setting. The hostess greeted us by stating the restaurant was closed – even though we had a reservation. It took some gentle insistence to rectify the situation. Our waitperson and jet setters table neighbors were most kind.
To enjoy the incomparable coastline and mountains, purchase provisions at markets in Carmel or Cambria. Or expect a substantial premium on everything.
The Asilomar clerk looked positively puzzled when we checked in. She explained my reservation was mixed with that of three other parties because we all shared the same last name. I have never met anyone with my last name and I jumped at the chance to meet my brethrens. Sadly, the baffled employee would not divulge their room numbers.
A fan of seafood, I bypassed the Monterey Aquarium even though it offered a celebratory fish dinner for New Years Eve. Instead, we found our way again to
Passionfish, perpetually intrigued by the wine list priced just a few dollars above retail. Shocking concept! For delectable seafood, I also recommend the
Fishwife, just across the road from Asilomar. We stumbled accidentally on
Turtle Bay, a casually cheerful and tasty taqueria offshoot from the Fishwife folks.
The Monterey peninsula abounds in esteemed restaurants that aim for a sustainable approach to food. It also marks the beginning of the marketing zone of influence of a favorite tasty treat. It is almost an obligation to purchase an
It’s It as I travel near its San Francisco home base. The dessert – a scoop of ice cream sandwiched between two oatmeal cookies dipped in a thin chocolate layer - is less often available in Southern California. It only comes in four flavors, and I favor mint the most. The ingredients are not all that reassuring, but nevertheless, the front of the package claims “all natural flavors.”
I love it.
Although not enough to order by mail. A case of 24 fetches a reasonable $17. But time is the enemy in the melting world of ice cream makers. All orders must go overnight. And for that, add $64!
Pacific Grove claims to be a haven for the migrating Monarch butterflies. The insect’s southern journey had yet to kick into full gear, but we located the Monarch Grove Sanctuary in a residential neighborhood not far from our hotel. An imposing sign greeted us and displayed the course of the foot trail through the preserve. Based on its dimension, I pictured a substantial path through eucalyptus and cypress.
We reached the outer limit in 90 seconds.
More consequential outdoor possibilities fill the Big Sur coast. The rocky Point Lobos, just south of Carmel, juts into the crashing waves. Its gentle paths lead to promontories and exposed bluffs. Pay $8 and park at the viewpoints. Or do as locals, and your impoverished narrator, do. As you approach the state park on Highway 1, notice the dozens of cars near the entrance. Leave your car there and walk in for free. It’s not far and you need the exercise anyways – have you already ditched your New Year resolutions? Fees are in fact for parking, not entering. This slight legal technicality means that you will frequently find a way in without disbursing funds. Don’t expect help from park personnel in your mission. Often, threatening No Parking signs pop up alongside the roadway. They are, as with all such things, “for our protection.” Take down the signs. Or pay.
Or come play ping pong with me.
The last time I held a racket goes back further than I can recall readily. Elisabeth, on the other hand, easily draws on memories of fame as an adroit player in her youth. She challenged me to a game in the stately lobby at Asilomar where a ping pong table sits next to two billiards.
Our first match ended in disaster as I got crushed in defeat. We played a few more and I barely redressed the calamity.
We abandoned the tense competition and retreated to our room. But it wasn’t long before the lure of the flying little white balls dragged us back to the lobby. Over the course of repeated visits during our three days we shared the table with young girls and boys (at least of one whom I classified as a girl, but gender recognition has never been my forte). They watched politely as we jostled. I ignored the repressed snickers when my ball would fly a perfect trajectory into the Christmas tree and knock down the ornaments.
I tried not to disturb the young prodigy whose classical interpretations at the piano competed with the rhythmical pings and pongs of our game.
My skills improved and in short order neither the Christmas tree nor the piano player had to dodge errant balls. The diminutive racket dangling at my wrists performed a graceful ballet and returned a growing percentage of sneaky shots. Elisabeth’s confidence sank under my steely assurance. I strutted three feet off the edge of the table with the coolness of the accomplished sportsman.
Spectators gathered to witness my prowess. The three of them bowed respectfully when the final shot whizzed over the net and evaded Elisabeth’s racket.
I won!
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong
ping pong.
