A Tale of Two Hotels
Gran Hotel La Perla is an historic five star hotel tucked into the north east corner of the Plaza Del Castillo in Pamplona, Spain. The city has been described as “lofty” and it truly is. The La Perla is steps away from Cafe Iruña, a favorite of Ernest Hemingway, where now one can often see old coots from America with well-trimmed white beards paying a kind of homage in their khaki cosplay. As for me, not a big fan. The guy wrote beautiful books about crappy people; drunken, entitled, dumbasses dipshitting around Europe oblivious to the harm they caused. Also, beautiful Pamplona is the theater for the Encierro or “running of the bulls”; a yearly recurring atrocity that “Papa" Hemingway helped popularize for upwardly-mobile folks to feel the rush of fake danger while encouraging the ritualized humiliation, torture and killing of proud, innocent animals. Thanks Dad.
The La Perla however, is not to blame. True, their rooms overlooking the Calle Estafeta go for absurd prices during San Fermin and the writer’s favorite room is a kind of period shrine, but except for a week in July when everyone agrees to lose their minds, a stay at the historic hotel is truly splendid. They have luxurious bathrobes and a front desk staff that remembers my name. They listen attentively to my ridiculous Spanish and smile knowingly when they see I have returned to my room with a box of cookies from “Beatriz”. The La Perla is on the Camino de Santiago; a walk I will do every year until I can’t. Often, pilgrims come to the hotel in rough shape. It offers succor and replenishes the soul.
Stockmen’s Casino in Elko, Nevada is not “grand” and Elko is not lofty. Years ago I had a dream job. I drove around the American West looking for treasure. Oriental rugs went to Barry in Los Angeles. Vintage denim went to Larry in Seattle. All other vintage clothing went to Werner in San Francisco and fine couture, paintings and other stuff went to Butterfield’s. I ate in truck stops and gaped at the beauty unfolding outside my car window. Elko was a day’s drive from Reno. Stockmen’s back then was an oasis. It had a pool, two dollar blackjack, a Saturday night prime rib buffet and an appalling lounge comic. My room had a "Mr. Coffee” maker and a velvet tiger on the wall. This was the conservative world pre Maga; no silly red caps or dopey conspiracies; just helpful, friendly people that unaffectedly challenged my self irony. Like the Gran Hotel La Perla, Stockmen’s has a literary history. Each year Elko is the site of the “National Cowboy Poetry Gathering” and many of the bards stay there summoning their muse in the coffee shop just off the lobby. Also, sadly, it too harbors a cruel anachronism, “The Silver State stampede”. Often, I sat elbow to elbow with cowboys and their wives, gussied up and sweaty, kind, generous and disconnected from the pain they inflict, whooping and hollering with them over a daring double down or commiserating over a bad beat.
Gran Hotel La Perla. Stockmen’s Casino. One can debate high and low, modernism versus kitsch; five star service with two dollar blackjack, Tostada Con Tomate with a stack of flapjacks. That would be missing the point. A great hotel is about a traveler’s experience. It is about time and place; going away or coming home. Time spent passes like music. Sleep is untroubled whether its beneath Egyptian cotton or a polyester blend. Hotels are magic. They are moments shared with strangers that can’t be recalled. Mirth and madness. There is nowhere less lonely. it is only experience that varies. The joy is the same.