My Experience at the Hotel Del Coronado in San Diego
We arrived on a Thursday at the world famous Hotel Del Coronado. A decadent vacation destination, steeped in history and mystique. A Texas boy, I had no previous knowledge of this place or its fame, but my girlfriend insisted I accompany her on what might be an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to patronize the historic hotel, and enjoy the salt air; a welcome change for the sinuses and the zero humidity in the Arizona desert.
It’s no mystery, that San Diego is very accessible when you live in Tucson. This entire area of the country is as intertwined and well-traveled to locals as the Midwestern states are to mid-westerners. I am, as I indicated, a Texas transplant, and the concept of traveling by car for as little as 4 hours and being in another state entirely, is still somewhat foreign. Albeit, San Diego, or more appropriately, Coronado Island, is more like five and three-quarters hours away (due to a few International border checkpoints and altitude variations), the drive is not’t altogether grueling, save the foul-smelling stockyards that line the corridor of a particular stretch of ‘the 8’, as it’s called. But if that portion of the journey can be tolerated, the scenery along the rest of the short trek from Tucson to San Diego is nothing short of breathtaking, and the destination (the great Pacific Ocean, and Coronado Island) is well worth any temporary olfactory discomfort.
The hotel touts itself to be a ‘luxury’ hotel. On the front end, at first glance, one might be persuaded by the number of monkey-suited bell hops that greet you ravenously at curbside jockeying for position, and an opportunity to service your luggage for a gratuity. Not to mention the old-world opulence and antique charm of the period architecture and the nifty design stamped into the sand of the ashtrays outside the front entrance. Then you enter the front atrium, and through another set of doors right into the main lobby. Wow, and at Christmas time, what a sight! A tree at least two or three stories high, decorated to the hilt. But was I surprised when my nose did not’t detect even a hint of that familiar pine, especially from such a large tree. Much to my chagrin, the old world charm took an instant hit, when it became obvious that the tree was artificial. Oh well, I suppose I understand from the management’s perspective why a real tree is not’t plausible. Being that they’re in California, too, there’s probably some code that protects the historic building, and prohibits real trees because of the fire risk; kind of a disappointment if you ask me. I’m more than certain there’s still a real tree in the governor’s mansion back in Texas, and it too is a historical building. I digress.
Altogether, I suppose charming is apropos, but luxury is arguable; I’ll elaborate.
The tourist and family element, even in the off season, detract from any services they provide, or the level of the facility and the accoutrement of the rooms. It was more like Disney World, than the Plaza. Notwithstanding, the blood-stained bed spread, though down-filled, was a bit disgusting, and not something which I would not consider to be a minute detail that was over-looked; again, luxury, perhaps not. Further, the level of service in the lobby’s Palm Court on the evening I arrived, was deplorable. There was not a clean table in the entire area. Dirty stem-ware and plates abounded, and remained the entire time my girlfriend and I forcibly had to sit (at the bar). I assumed they were a bit understaffed, but by the time my girlfriend and I had arrived, only two-tables remained sat, and one of the two cocktail servers was busy answering her personal cell phone in plain view, as opposed to attending to what I would naturally contend to be one of her duties, to bus tables. Let’s just say, it was enough to make anyone who pays $200/ night for only a partial ocean view, to give the management a piece of their mind. And though it was on my girlfriend’s dime, I was happy to go to bat for her. As a concession, the management comped the bill from the Palm Court experience, and offered a woefully slippery apology. Subsequently, the charges that were supposed to have been removed, remained, and appeared on my girlfriend’s credit card statement, and had to be contested with several phone calls to the hotel after we’d already returned to Tucson. All of what I described and, a brass elevator operator, and three concierges on duty (who sometimes don’t even answer the phone), does not a luxury hotel make.
The big question remains: during my stay, did I run into Kate? Anyone familiar with the lore? Well, so the story goes, a young woman shot herself on the veranda in 1892, and her spirit is said to remain in and around the Hotel Del; your classic ghost story. (You can get a historic society-approved and comprehensive account of the tale in a nicely packaged paperback in the hotel gift shop for $30). And even as my girlfriend and I were curious enough to make passage by the room where she’d checked in those many years ago under an assumed identity, I can’t say that I did not’t get a chill. I do so enjoy a good ghost story, and am a sucker for apparitions, poltergeists, hauntings, the nether- world, and the like.
So go and check it out. Maybe it was a fluke, that time of year, you know? Despite the lack of luxury, the charm and the salt air, I think, are enough to merit a return trip, even by this curmudgeon.
