One Night at the Madonna Inn
"If David Lynch and Liberace had a mind meld."
The Madonna Inn, a roadside motel just outside San Luis Obispo, California, is a veritable institution of camp. With its myriad themed rooms featuring giant boulders, shocking pink carpets and leopard-print beds, it resembles Jayne Mansfield’s pink palace by way of Fraggle Rock. I have no idea where I first absorbed evidence of its existence—an old episode of The Simpsons? Reblogged images on Tumblr?—but I have always inherently understood it as a place I would feel very at home.
I have wanted to stay there for as long as I can remember. When a trip to California presented itself to me in the form of a wedding invite, I began planning a straightforward in-and-out trip to LA, which eventually morphed into an otherworldly road trip along the Pacific Coast Highway once I realized how many items I could knock off my bucket list in a single trip: the Winchester Mystery House, Hearst Castle, and finally, the Madonna Inn.
From the highway, the first indication that the Madonna Inn is closeby is a neon sign beckoning in weary travellers with the promise of “pastries” and “steak house.” The mystifying concept was conceived by Alex Madonna, a real estate developer whose construction company “built most of Highway 101 from Salinas to Buellton,” and his wife, Phyllis. Often on the road for work, Madonna dreamed of building “a beautiful inn with an elegant dining room”…and somehow managed to come up with a concept so bizarre that it looks like Dr. Frankenstein spliced together an English country cottage and Fred Flinstone’s rock cave while tripping on LSD. The massive rocks in many of the rooms are real; detritus from Madonna’s many construction sites repurposed as decor.
The first thing you notice pulling into the parking lot is that everything is pink. The lamp posts. The parking spaces. The maintenance golf carts. It immediately dawns on me that the Madonna Inn is a place for eccentric women and the men who love them. On my way into the building, I spot a woman with orange hair wearing a colourful caftan with her rockabilly-looking boyfriend. I clock her outfit, and notice her clocking mine.
The haze of excitement I felt upon arrival clouded my senses, but after grabbing the keys, we padded up a set of private purple-carpeted stairs to reach our room: “What’s Left,” a dizzying pink room with a vibrant patchwork quilt theme. (I had a hard time deciding between Krazy Dazy, Romance, and Starlite, but the psycho nature of What’s Left was what ultimately spoke the deepest to my soul.) If I’m being honest, I was expecting a pretty seedy honeymoon hotel, so I was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the room. The kooky geometric carpeting appeared fresh, as did the jungle quilted chairs. The most impressive aspect was by far the bathroom, with its freaky patchwork tiles and sparkly wallpaper reminiscent of the fabric children’s dance costumes are sewn out of. The toilet came equipped with a heated seat and a fully-functional bidet.
I wasn’t sold on eating at the on-site restaurant —judging from photos online the food looks pretty bad—but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity after Freak Friend Raquel Laneri described it “as if David Lynch and Liberace had a mind meld.” The interior resembles the Old Spaghetti Factory if it were designed by Miss Piggy. Firstly, there’s a demonic looking Easter Bunny sitting close to the entrance, and as we made our way past fake flower chandeliers and pink-and-gold banquettes, I noticed three women with dyed bright red pompadours holding court at one of the sunken tables, confirming my assertion that the Madonna Inn is heavily rockabilly-coded. The food was bad, but perhaps it was my mistake—apparently Kacey Musgraves orders the pink champagne cake all the time. The whole trip, John and I kept exclaiming “Oh, Madone!” In a Sopranos-esque exaggerated Italian accent.
The interior of the on-site restaurant resembles the Old Spaghetti Factory if it were designed by Miss Piggy.
We couldn’t leave without stopping by the gift shop, which was an illusory experience in itself, consisting of two full floors of souvenirs. The first one is dedicated to rhinestone cowboy boots and the kind of bedazzled clothing befitting of a Miami retiree. The second is a more standard issue souvenir shop with Madonna Inn-branded bathrobes, 500-piece puzzles, and postcards depicting every single room. (Each guest is entitled to two free postcards of their room.) I thought I’d pick up several of the ornate glass goblets we drank out of at dinner, but ended up with a coffee table book, which the attendant mentioned Phyllis Madonna could personally autograph. (To which I responded, ‘Who?’) Alas, it would have required another 24 hours so I left with my book unsigned. There’s a THIRD gift shop in the basement, selling candy and fudge.
My delightfully unhinged stay at the Madonna Inn struck me as the kind of experience that you have once and never again. Spending 24 hours there felt like a lucid dream—it may or may not happen again, but I will remember it forever.
absolutely thrilled when i saw your pix on insta, that place is made for you! i was once snubbed by a horse at the madonna inn, to be fair, i deserved it. :,) the honor was all mine
Honored that I am quoted in this delightful tribute to this singular, crazy place!!!