Out of the Inn

Unpacking at SLO’s Madonna Inn

Merely passing through a place you’re meant to stay in can feel disorienting. For all the years that I’ve been coming to the Madonna Inn, I’ve never actually stayed the night. Instead, on family trips, on trips with friends, on this trip with Caravan, I stop inside, walk around, maybe take a picture. And then I leave.

The first time I came to the Madonna Inn, I was twelve years old. My dad and I were on our way to Santa Barbara to visit some family friends who just had a baby. I was strapped tightly into the passenger seat (my dad drove the car too fast for my taste), and as our car barreled down the 101, the hot pink billboards advertising the Madonna Inn caught my eye. I begged my dad to slow down, to pull over, to let me explore. He obliged, and I ran around the Inn for one glorious hour.

The Madonna Inn wants you. It begs you to stay longer, later. 

After a long day on the road, the pale pink pleather booths feel luxe. They soak up any residual road rage as you sink into them and make everything feel a little bit softer. The smell of the aging Inn dances with the floral perfume that emanates absolutely from the bleach-blonde woman who gulps down her Diet Coke at the lunch counter (she isn’t content with her Madonna Inn experience until she’s had her six refills). The gift shop hosts racks of fur coats and shelves of crystal goblets. 

I float atop giant roses embossed on the carpet below me. 

And yet, despite the Inn’s most fervent attempts to lure me in and trap me in one of their themed guest rooms, I leave. I don’t stay in the Old Fashioned Room, in Gypsy Rock, in the Love Nest. Time and time again, I turn my back on this amalgamation of life, of time, of space. Past the families who pour themselves into booths at the diner to stare in awe at the pieces of cake that are bigger than their faces. Past the staff who, in stolen moments, whisper to each other about Kelsi-with-an-I’s latest breakdown in the luxury gift shop (not to be mistaken with the regular gift shop). Past the bridesmaids who assemble in the bathroom to critique the dearth of alcohol at this “party.” 

Built in 1958, the Madonna Inn remains largely untouched by the outside world. Changes in technology, in politics, in architectural preferences seem to have little to no effect on this hot pink piece of paradise. The Inn is a refuge for travelers looking to escape the repetition of increasingly predictable modernity. 

The cashier who mans the third-floor gift shop (the non-luxury one) gushes to me about the lore of the Madonna Inn – “the Madonnas were so excited to have their first guest that they refunded his room and let him stay for free! Did you know that Alex Madonna used to eat steak from that pink restaurant downstairs for three meals a day?” As she bounces around, restocking souvenir cups and recounting lost history, her short purple hair bounces, too. She doesn’t mesh with the older shoppers who grumble about the price of gas at the register, and she doesn’t particularly care. She is wild as she works at the Inn, free to be as she pleases while she sells souvenir t-shirts and recites trivia.

I think some of the beauty in this place is that it catches you off guard. The Madonna Inn, in all of its faded fairytale glory, is the type of strange that forces everyone to exhale, to release. The employees are a joy to chat with, the travelers roll in from far and wide. Like the rooms, no two characters here are alike.

Everyone seems to be themselves here, for better or for worse. I see a sister hugging her brother, I see a husband yelling at his wife. Nobody seems to be conscious of the other people passing through, watching. Humanity is raw and untamed. Unbothered.

People-watching is potent at the Inn. It is delicious and juicy. It stinks of pure life. I drown in the authenticity, lose myself in the intoxicating hullabaloo. My typical observations of humanity are more filtered. I peer through a fogged-up window. Visions of life in the outside world are more processed, more diluted. Here, it’s different.

When I leave this time after a mere hour and a half at the Inn, I feel differently than when I arrived. I’ve collected little moments in hotel guests’ lives the same way I collect seashells on the beach. 

My second-grade teacher used to read us a book called Have You Filled a Bucket Today? A Guide to Daily Happiness for Kids. The book was all about the importance of doing little things to make other people happy. The goal was to fill our friends’ proverbial buckets with happiness. The image of a bucket full of happy was one that has always stuck with me. The idea of a bucket is so painfully literal, and yet, it seems to be the only way to fully capture the immense joy that I derive from a mere themed motel.

The Madonna Inn fills my bucket. When I visit I am filled up with little stories and memories from my momentary stay that will sustain me until I inevitably make my way back. I leave more whole than I was when I came in.

Words: Lila Bock

Photos: William Fei