Asher on Aspen: California dreaming

I was 16 when I somehow convinced my older sister, Erin, to take a last-minute road trip with me to our family cabin in Nebraska. I think I mentioned it on a Wednesday; by Friday, we were packed. Erin, usually the practical one with lists and plans, surprised me — she just agreed, tossed her bag in the backseat, and went along for the ride. That weekend, we lounged in the sun, rode the pontoon, dug through old family photos, and even scored last-minute tickets to see Martina McBride at the State Fair. That trip stayed with me, Erin fully embracing the joy of a spontaneous weekend with her little sister.

Flash forward to this fall, when I pulled the same trick. I somehow convinced her — now buried under the chaos of soccer games, Nutcracker auditions, and one spirited 4-year-old — to abandon her husband and three kids and fly with me to Los Angeles. First time in California, first time in L.A. She said yes. Again. Kevan, if you’re reading this: eternal gratitude.

I scooped her up from the circus of LAX, and we buzzed like teenagers as we tore across the freeway to Century City. Our base for the weekend: the Fairmont Century Plaza, a shiny midcentury gem brought back to life with a recent $2.5 billion renovation. Stepping into the lobby felt like entering a sleek, modern retreat — floor-to-ceiling windows, a living green wall, and a bar that somehow managed to feel polished and lively at the same time.

We checked into one of the signature rooms, which felt less like a hotel room and more like a private oasis for two sisters playing hooky from real life. Spacious and sleek, wrapped in soft whites and grays, like a blank canvas waiting to be filled. The balcony stretched wide over the city, a ribbon of lights and traffic below that felt almost romantic from eight floors up. Erin and I perched there with our coffees, taking in the city sprawled beneath us, letting the hum of Los Angeles settle into our bones.

The room was full of little Hollywood Easter eggs — notes scrawled with cult-classic movie quotes tucked here and there. I found one from “Forrest Gump” beside the espresso machine. Erin stumbled across “My Best Friend’s Wedding” near the minibar. We read them out loud to each other, giggling like true movie nerds.

By the time night fell, we were ready for our first real outing: dinner at Lumière, the hotel’s French brasserie. It felt elegant but relaxed, with plush seating, mirrored walls, and waiters gliding around like extras in a musical. Our waitress, Stacey, was phenomenal — radiating the kind of energy that makes the whole room feel brighter. She knew the menu like the back of her hand and described every dish with such flair that my mouth was watering before the bread even arrived.

We surrendered to the three-course chef’s prix-fixe menu. I started with a fresh salad that tasted as if it had been plucked from a Parisian garden that morning, then dove wholeheartedly into a bowl of pasta so decadent it felt illegal. Erin ordered the same, and we both finished with chocolate mousse so rich and creamy it made us lean back in our seats, eyes closed, lost in the kind of bliss only chocolate can bring.

What lingered longer than the flavors was the company. The real delight was the conversation — two sisters leaning into the glow of candlelight, finally free to talk without kids tugging at sleeves or phones buzzing with obligations. Just the easy rhythm of fork to plate, glass to lips, and story to story. Later, with our stomachs full, we wandered back to the room, slipped into our favorite pajama sets, and sprawled across the beds, talking about nothing and everything.

The next morning, we set out to explore the city. The traffic was every bit as maddening as people say, but we turned it into an excuse for car karaoke. Windows down, voices raised, we belted Tom Petty, Van Morrison, and The Beach Boys into the city air. I told Erin there’s nothing more therapeutic than blasting your favorite songs with the windows down in a new city, and she just smiled, nodding in agreement. We laughed at ourselves, two classic-rock junkies clearly born in the wrong decade. Later, we strolled the Hollywood Walk of Fame, pausing to point out the names of musicians and actors we’ve admired for years, their stars glittering beneath our feet like scattered constellations.

When it was time for Erin to head back to LAX, I felt the same pang I’d felt leaving the cabin all those years ago — a quiet ache that things were about to snap back to their usual rhythm. She would return to carpools and homework checks, and I would return to deadlines and to-do lists. But for one fleeting weekend, we’d hijacked the calendar and called it ours.

The Fairmont Century Plaza wasn’t just a hotel. It was our hideaway, our urban oasis, our balcony in the sky. And the best part? For anyone in Aspen craving their own quick escape, Los Angeles is now closer than ever — less than two hours by direct flight. A short hop, and you too can trade mountain peaks for palm trees and let the city work its strange, golden magic on you.