Palihouse Holloway

I’m originally from Los Angeles, and I categorically refuse to valet park. What’s the point in having insider knowledge of a city if you have to hand your car keys over to someone else and let them find a space for you. Poor Mr Smith is despairing. We’ve been driving around West Hollywood, one of LA’s many cities-within-the-city, for about half an hour now, and he’s itching to get out of the car and start checking out NY-style boutique hotel the Palihouse Holloway.

We cruise down Santa Monica Boulevard, past waving rainbow flags and stylish Hollywood types milling outside trendy restaurants, all the time looking for a spot. Mr Smith eventually spies one and, in seconds flat, the car is parked and the top is put up. Mr Smith totes our bags to the almost incognito Palihouse Holloway, denoted only by a small black-and-white awning and an inconspicuous host standing just outside the main door.

The door swings open and our eyes adjust to the east coast-style bistro scene that unfolds below us. As we descend the small staircase, it feels as though we’ve entered another, cooler, era in time. Ladies in pencil-thin cocktail dresses sip cocktails at the bar, while a busy waitstaff attends to the early evening crowd in the atrium/dining room. We must look a little lost while gawking at the gorgeous interior, because within seconds a friendly staff member takes our hand and leads us to the reception area, which is tucked into the back corner of the large room.

At the reception desk, we are greeted by a dapper man dressed in Argyll prints and trim slacks. This is Josh. He smiles and immediately hands us both tumblers of red wine. Mr. Smith drains his, goes to reach for mine and gets a flat knock-back. No way Mr Smith. After lighting up the elevator with our key fob, Josh leads us to our third-floor room, flipping switches and fluffing pillows as he walks in. Before he hustles out, he bids us goodnight.

Once inside, we again find ourselves standing slack-jawed, taking in the simple elegance of our room. We are both impressed by the large glass-enclosed shower, complete with a rain showerhead, and I take my time admiring the C&O Bigelow shower amenities, which I’m sure I’ll end up taking home with me. While Mr Smith loses himself in a giant piece of art behind the sofa, consisting of hundreds of Polaroid photos, I delight in opening all the drawers in the full kitchen and turning the stove-top on and off before finding the pièce de resistance: the washer/dryer located just to the right of the kitchen. I am so excited about my find that Mr Smith comes over, thinking I surely must have struck gold. I only wish I had clothes to wash, as it’s been more than five years since I’ve lived in an apartment that has a washer in it.

Twenty minutes later, when Mr Smith finally tears me away from the washer, we throw on some clothes and head out to meet some friends for delicious sushi at one of the best Japanese restaurants in town, Ariya. We stuff ourselves with tuna sashimi, shishito peppers and several bottles of sake, before adjourning to our friend’s nearby apartment. After five hours of alternately shredding on the ukulele and laughing about shredding on the ukulele, the sun is on the rise and we know it’s time to go home. Back at the Palihouse Holloway, we nearly pass out on our sumptuous couch before shuttering the blinds and crawling into bed.

The day breaks breezy and sunny, and I’m determined to take Mr Smith to Runyon Canyon, one of my favourite spots in LA. We make the trek to the mountain and lace up our running shoes for the two-hour hike up and around Hollywood. From the top of Runyon, you get gorgeous views of the entire city, including close-up views of the Hollywood sign. Mr Smith is sufficiently impressed and takes dozens of photos from different vantage points around the trail. At one we end up overhearing a conversation between one of the authors of the cult favourite Skinny Bitch diet books and an adoring fan. I nudge Mr Smith. ‘That’s soooooo LA,’ he mouths to me.

After a brief, ahem, nap back at the hotel, Mr Smith and I get ready for dinner at Falcon on Sunset, where we meet up with more of my old college friends to drink, chat and make merry. The night is punctuated with dramatic tales of love and loss as well as hoots and hollers. Fun is had by all.

Back at the Palihouse Holloway, I cosy up to Mr. Smith on the couch, as we recount our Los Angeles adventure. The hotel has been a perfect foil to our weekend – a calm, quiet and relaxing respite from the frenetic adventure we’ve crammed into our two days here. Maybe next time we’ll book the room and not tell anyone we’re in town…