I feel like I've talked about it since I first moved to L.A., but I finally got to experience the Madonna Inn for myself. Checking in felt similar to how I envision entering the gates of heaven. It was the perfect pink mix of tacky and white trash with so many elements for me to analyze and critique — I'd reached nirvana.
I love matching in any form. I packed my pink pants specifically for this moment. The baby pink room robe that matched the drapes (and pretty much the entire room) really took me to another place as well (or maybe that was the weed we bought in Portland?).
One thing that DIDN'T do it for me, was the restaurant. If you want the grandeur of the pink tufted dining booths you have to dine at the steakhouse. I use the term dine loosely as the food was almost inedible. We ordered chicken pesto and a steak salad — both things I assumed would be hard to screw up but was proven wrong. I always say, if you can't cook just distract people with a bomb table setting - the Madonna Inn steakhouse did just that, and I'm not even mad. Thinking about it now, if the food had in fact been amazing, there's a slight possibility I'd have had a heart attack.