“Going down?” a voice in a thick Irish brogue asked as I entered the elevator. It was Colin Farrell.

I wished I was, but alas, I was not. “Actually I’m going upstairs. Party in the penthouse,” I replied.

“Maybe I’ll pop by there later.”

One could only hope.

Legendary studio honcho Harry Cohn famously remarked, “If you must get into trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont”.

Shrouded by well-placed foliage and hidden from the throngs of bar hoppers and wannabe starlets, the French-castle styled Chateau Marmont sits quietly above Sunset Boulevard. L.A.’s most infamous and racy hotel is not about trends or press. It is not the loudest one in the class screaming to get noticed. Paparazzi are notoriously shunned here as much as they are welcomed outside the Ivy. Instead, the Chateau is more like that quiet sultry kid with swagger. The one you know is a bad ass, swigging whiskey and smoking cigarettes underneath the bleachers, but never uttering a word about it.

This is where James Dean jumped through a window to audition with Natalie Wood for Rebel Without a Cause, Elizabeth Taylor nursed Montgomery Clift post car crash, Led Zeppelin rode their motorcycles through the hallways and John Belushi took his final breath.

It’s all of this glorious lore that drew me to the Chateau. As someone who moved to the City of Angeles partially in the hopes of reliving its worst days of hedonism (after all I was a hair metal fan), I became quickly intoxicated with the allure of the Chateau. The Chateau represents a time before US Weekly and Star were exposing every celebrity exploit. It’s debauchery on the DL.

The Chateau Marmont dates back to 1929 when it was constructed as an apartment complex. But the Depression kept renters away and by 1931 it was transformed into a hotel. With its luxurious interiors, thick soundproof walls and low-key atmosphere, it’s no wonder the Chateau has been a haven for those behaving badly for almost a century.

It wasn’t as though I was fascinated with celebrities; I often found them dull and uninteresting. But sex, drugs and rock n’ roll was something that I had always been drawn to, back to the days when I would hide piles of metal and classic rock magazines under my teenage bed like contraband porn. Alas, when I first moved to L.A., I realized those days were long gone. Hair metal was dead and the remaining members of Led Zeppelin were old enough to be my parents and hardly riding motorcycles down hallways or pleasuring weird groupies with a shark (although if you’re reading this Robert Plant, I will always heart you).

Unfortunately, most of the good stuff had happened way before my time. So the Chateau Marmont was all I had. The last remnants of a lifestyle that had long since died. There I could at least remotely pretend that I swung from the chandeliers instead of realizing I was just another wannabe actress living with my boyfriend and shopping at Trader Joe’s on Saturdays. At any other spot in L.A. (or New York for that matter), the haves are very distinctly separated from the have-nots. Not at the Chateau. Everyone mingled together in a sort of utopian society of fabulosity. Everyone got to be fabulous — as long as you could get past the bouncers.

The restaurant, penthouses, lounge and patio served as a sort of playground for troublemaking. The backyard does not have a blaring sound system. There is no DJ. Instead, all is quiet, as people are actually able to converse without shouting over the blare of music. There are no velvet ropes. There isn’t even a bar. Instead, the tree and shrubbery-laden patio twinkles with lights at night, while the low murmur of conversation filters through the otherwise silent air, making one feel as though they are in some sort of magical Alice in Wonderland garden. Secrets are being told and deals are being made, but one would never know.

The penthouses, which boasted balconies bigger than my apartment with soaring views of Los Angeles, are where I spent some of my more entertaining evenings. It was at the Chateau that I saw Lindsay Lohan seemingly high as a kite staring off into outer space at a magazine party, Courtney Love stumbling drunk through the hallways with Frances Bean in tow and Calista Flockhart crumbling a pizza crust underneath her seat. It was also at Chateau that I met the Johnny Depp look-a-like and infamous staple on the nightlife scene, Shannon, who actually invited me to the bathroom to makeout. Tempted as I was, I had to decline.

But this was not why I cared for the Chateau. No, my favorite moment came when I was waiting in line for the bathroom at one of the many parties I was attending. As I gazed at the tall blond male form in front of me, it dawned on me that I recognized him. It was Matt Sorum, the drummer from Guns N’ Roses, one of my favorite bands of all time. I tried not to pee before I made it to the bathroom. He turned around.

“Are you waiting for the bathroom?” he asked.

“Yes, I am.” Of all the ways I dreamed of meeting the various members of Guns N’ Roses, this was not one of them.

“You can go in front of me. I’m just waiting for someone.”

“Thank you.” I stepped in front of him, my heart bursting with joy and happiness. After several years living in L.A., I had finally had the rockstar moment I had so dreamed about as teen, and it was at the Chateau Marmont.

By Rachel Khona

[Chateau Marmont by Nels Israelson/Flickr]

About the Author

Hailing from a magical land called New Jersey, Rachel is a writer and performer living somewhere in the 5th dimension. In addition to serving as contributing editor for Vaga, she has written for Cosmopolitan, Inked, and Ask Men and been featured as an expert on How About We and the Broadminded show.

She has performed at the Word Bookstore, Inner Monologues, Standard Issues and Speakeasy Stories. She is currently working on a memoir about being raised by a conservative Indian family, swindling European cab drivers and scaling glaciers. Find out more about Rachel at RachelKhona.com or follow her on Twitter at @RachelKhona.

The post The Legend of Chateau Marmont appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Lately, we’ve all been bombarded with silly airline promotions (see Ryanair, Ryanair, or Ryanair). This time, love is in the air, and the Kiwi’s are stepping up to the plate. Just recently, Air New Zealand announced a new “matchmaking flight” on selected overnight flights from L.A. to Auckland.

Festivities begin online, with their own social media website and pre-boarding airport party. Then, in between the champagne and rounds of speed dating, the crew might just break into dance (naturally, Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” is involved). Once in Auckland, you can try out some more brutal pick-up lines at the full scale mixer they will take you to. Sounds like a script idea for “The Hangover” writers.

Keep in mind, more than a quarter of New Zealand’s adult population is unmarried, and diamonds last forever, (ladies, who knows?). The first Matchmaking Flight sold out, but you can make a reservation here for about $780 round trip, which doesn’t include the cost of cleaning the mothball scent out of your suit coat (or the honeymoon, if things go well). Best of luck.

The post Are You Tired? Cuz You’ve Been Flying Through My Mind All Night appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

This Is L.A.? Just a short trip from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles, Catalina Island seems like it’s worlds away.

By Laurel Busby

Except for a hectic trip to New York City, I hadn’t left California for a vacation in over four years. Needless to say, I desperately needed to get away. Unfortunately, I only had one day to try to fit in two weeks worth of relaxation. Spending Easter Sunday on Catalina Island almost achieved the impossible.

I’d been pestering my husband about visiting Catalina Island ever since we had moved to L.A. two years before, but he was not particularly excited to go. Finally, on the day before our first open Sunday in three months, I convinced him to make the trip. Knowing almost nothing about the island, I spent the night before we left scouting Catalina.com for tips on how to get there and what to do once we arrived. I love ferry rides, snorkeling and animal life, so my imagination was in heaven as I navigated the Web site and saw that Catalina had all three.

The next day my stomach was not acting as thrilled as I was. In New York City I used to relish the cold, open air on the Staten Island ferry as it would plod across the calm Atlantic waters towards Manhattan, but the speedy Catalina Express was giving me the beginnings of seasickness. The high-speed ferry takes 1 1/4 hours to make the 22-mile trek from the California coast, but those prone to queasiness are encouraged to book a trip with the slightly more sedate ferries that make the trip in 2 1/4 hours for a cheaper price.

Luckily, the sight of Catalina Island on the horizon mellowed my stomach. This sleepy resort community looked as distant from Los Angeles as a remote Maine village. Once we arrived, I discovered that the pace here is slow, the island is quiet and the people are extremely friendly. Instead of rush-hour traffic and angry, speeding drivers, Catalina’s worst traffic jams consist of tourists on foot bunching up as golf carts zip along. Only buses and bicycles are allowed on much of the island, and the absence of teeming, gas-burning vehicles creates a calm, eco-friendly environment.

With human activity dating back over 7,000 years, the island has had its fair share of residents, including everyone from the Native Americans who first called the island home, Portuguese and Spanish explorers, Russian otter hunters, English smugglers, the Chicago Cubs (who conducted Spring Training here from 1921 to 1951 — gum magnate William Wrigley Jr. owned both the team and the island at the time), to the present-day population of approximately 3,500 year-round residents residing mostly in the sleepy town of Avalon.

Catalina’s only town, Avalon has a picturesque harbor that visitors can explore on their own with rented paddle boats or kayaks, or with a group on one of the many glass-bottom boats with underwater windows and see-through floors for gazing down at the abundant sea life that lives just off shore.

Avalon’s shopkeepers and employees working in the many stores along the pretty village streets look happy and relaxed compared to their Los Angeles counterparts. They chat, smile and generally take their time. On a trip through town on a public bus, the driver regaled my husband and me — his only two passengers — with stories about the town’s various buildings and the community.

The first thing you notice upon entering the harbor is the Catalina Casino, easily the island’s most eye-catching and recognizable landmark. Although I thought the circular, twelve-story Art Deco building might actually have gambling, its name is a misnomer. The complex is actually a combination vintage movie theater, ballroom, museum and wedding spot, but has never been a casino (the term Casino was taken from Italian to mean “gathering place”). The building opened in 1929 and was a popular entertainment spot during the 1930’s and 40’s when the likes of Jimmy Dorsey, Woody Herman and Harry James played there. Though heading into its 80th year, the building still retains the charm that helped attract visitors such as Winston Churchill, Laurel and Hardy, and John Wayne to the island.

However, as any nature enthusiast knows, Catalina’s main attractions are located outside. From Avalon Bay we hopped on a tour boat and sailed south to Lover’s Cove Undersea Gardens, an underwater collection of kelp beds home to literally hundreds of species of fish and a popular scuba spot. We watched through the boat’s large windows as bright orange Garibaldi — California’s once endangered state fish; herds of opal-eye dorado; and iridescent smelt swarmed around our submersible boat.

Next we turned to snorkeling. Although the water tends to be a bit chilly in early April, the wet suits we had on provided a warm skin, allowing us to swim among the fish that we had watched from inside the boat just moments before. But, because the suits provide so much buoyancy, it was almost impossible to dive very far below the surface to follow the fish as they skittered into deep hideaways.

When we stepped out of the water, my slender husband was shaking from the cold, but my extra layer of fat had kept me comfortable. We sat on the rocky beach until we were both toasty warm and he was no longer trembling. We were now both relaxed and fatigued, but we had worked up quite an appetite from our exertions and we still had another six hours before our boat left. We had brought sandwiches with us, but they were long gone, so in the late afternoon we walked the half-mile back to the harbor, changed out of our bathing suits and into dry clothes, and began searching for a restaurant.

There were several well-appointed eateries we considered as we walked along the waterfront, but not many were attracting us. Until, that is, we stumbled upon Antonio’s Pizzeria. With a stunning view looking out across Avalon Bay and a wood plank interior, Antonio’s had no pretension and a rustic flavor that fit our need to relax. Notably, the walls were papered with hundreds of dollar bills that customers had illustrated and dated to mark their visits. We lucked onto a waiter with a smirking sense of humor, and he scattered a cup of peanuts onto our table for us to enjoy as we awaited our pizza.

As the hours left in our visit wound down, we wandered through the town until we reached a miniature golf course leading through trees and a stream. We played the course and returned in time to catch our 8 p.m. boat home. As we sped homeward, my husband confided to me that he was in love and wanted to pack up the house and move to Catalina; I just couldn’t wait to return to try out the camping, search for flying fish, and visit the isolated Two Harbors on the far side of the island — accessible only by ferry in the summer months.

On that trip home on the Catalina Express, I once again began to feel a sense of nausea, but I didn’t care, the queasiness was more than worth the journey.

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