Gone North

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When in Los Angeles, there’s only so much Viceroy, sun and flip-flops that one east coast gal can bear, especially around turkey day. It’s not Thanksgiving unless a girl is nestled in cashmere and knee deep in boots, family drama or something else as engulfing… perhaps grapes. I know it’s not often you get to steal yourself away (from family), but when you can, I say, “Hello Mercedes. Hello road trip to Sonoma.”

[btw: No better time to skirt through San Francisco than Thanksgiving week. This little gem of a town is your oyster. You have your pick of any hotel (Mandarin, Monaco and Ritz alike) with occupancy and rates wavering low and the same. I, of course, stayed at the Clift. Mostly out of my Schrager habit, but then there’s the love for their well shaken martini’s and Gary Farrell pours. And San Francisco offers all sorts of entertainment – the Palace of Arts is not to be missed. I however, channeled up an ex-Mr. Sometime. (I had too. Girl looked damn good all cashmere-ed up. Besides I was locked up in a convertible all day. *Traffic* Needed to be seen and heard.) My ex-Mr. Sometime, not surprisingly, came running on cue. And although he said he was happy to be nothing more than a wing man, he did leave me wondering if his hand caressing my thigh was well… proper wing-man protocol. Men. (*sigh*) But I digress.]

Where to stay? Hotel Junkie as I’m, I honed in on Healdsburg Hotel, only 67 miles north of San Francisco. Hotel Healdsburg is the “Mondy” of the place. Relatively new construction, it is charmingly pretty, parked on the main square of town, and anchored by a Charlie Palmer restaurant, of Kitchen 22 fame back in New York City. (More on all this later. I promise…)

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