Last night, the Figueroa came to you in a dream again, in its new form. You were transported to one of the new signature suites—the evocatively named Parador, Casablanca, Figueroa, Cabaña, El Rey, La Reyna and Mirador—homages to the hotel’s Spanish Colonial wood beams, arches, and columns.
As much as you enjoy Downtown L.A. and Hollywood, for you the real L.A. is the old L.A. that exists west of the 405 freeway from Bel-Air to the beach. Places that belong to Dennis Hopper, the Ferus gallery, Jim Morrison writing lyrics on Venice Beach, Less Than Zero trust fund babies, Faye Dunaway lounging by the pool post-Oscars, the Malibu Colony and Joan Didion’s lonely characters nibbling hardboiled eggs as they circle the 405 freeway, too rich to ever be happy. To you, that’s the essence of L.A., the strange paradise city where angels’ fortunes rise and fall daily, casual as the sun.