Asher on Aspen: Marfa nights

I’d only ever heard stories about Marfa, Texas — something about mysterious lights, endless stars, and a Prada store that isn’t really a store. In my mind, it was a desert mirage, a remote place where artists, drifters, and madmen go to disappear. I never expected to find myself there for a wedding. But when my dear friend Sophia invited me to celebrate her marriage to Wyatt under the West Texas sky, there was no universe in which I could say no. 

Sophia is one of those rare souls who radiates pure light — the kind of person who makes you want to be a little better, a little wilder, a little freer. We met mid-pandemic in Aspen over taco night, and somewhere between the margaritas and Van Morrison, a lifelong friendship was born. She is beautiful in the way that matters — in her laugh, her curiosity, the way she really sees the people around her. So when she told me she was getting married in Marfa, I said yes before she even mentioned the date — the rest was just logistics.

My partner in crime for the weekend — my wedding date and oldest friend — was Kenzie. The two of us have known each other since before we could drive, and together, we’ve navigated every chaotic corner of adulthood. We landed in Midland, grabbed a rental car, and aimed it west toward Marfa. There’s something about West Texas that feels like another planet — the long stretch of nothingness, the silence, and two old friends catching up on everything life had thrown our way.

Our home base for the weekend was the Saint George Hotel, the crown jewel of downtown Marfa. The original Saint George opened in 1886, back when this humble railroad stop was just starting to find its place on the map. The modern version nods to that history with a mix of old charm and clean, modern style — the kind of place where you half expect to see Donald Judd sipping whiskey at the bar or Beyoncé slipping quietly through the lobby (which, rumor has it, she’s done).

The hotel itself is pure desert chic: cool, minimalist interiors, sharp design, and art so good it makes you pay attention. Downstairs, the restaurant and bar buzz with life — a mix of locals, wedding guests, artists, and wanderers all crossing paths. The rooms are bright and airy, the beds dangerously comfortable, and the pool offers a much-needed escape from the heat. It’s easy luxury — effortless, unfussy, and exactly right for Marfa.

Our first day in town, Kenzie and I drove 30-some miles west to see it — the infamous Prada Marfa installation in Valentine, Texas. It’s a perfect replica of a Prada storefront, sitting absurdly alone on the side of Highway 90. Inside are genuine Prada shoes and handbags, permanently encased behind glass. You can’t shop there, but everyone stops to snap the selfie. It’s both hilarious and haunting — a luxury boutique frozen in time, slowly baking in the sun.

Just down the road lives the legendary Valentine Bar — the diviest of dive bars and, quite possibly, the quirkiest bar I’ve ever stumbled into. Out front, a sign painted on an old car door simply read “Open.” Inside, the walls were plastered with dollar bills, each scrawled with half-drunk confessions from travelers who’d clearly loved their time there. The owner, Jeff Wilson, likes to say he’s “open when he’s open,” and in Valentine, that seems to work just fine.

Behind the bar was Jason — a desert character straight out of a Hunter S. Thompson hallucination. Thick, black glasses, yellow bandana, turquoise rings, green gauges, blue handkerchief flapping loose. He spoke in riddles, jokes, and flashes of philosophy — a man who’d been everywhere and somehow found himself exactly here. “That’s Waylon,” he said, pointing to a photo of a cow, then gesturing to the bar. “That’s his hide right there.” We laughed until our sides hurt. By the time we left, we’d somehow become old friends — bound by laughter, cheap beer, and the desert’s strange, magnetic pull.

The wedding weekend kicked off Friday night at the Saint George with an “outlaw chic” rehearsal dinner — cowboy boots, wide-brimmed hats, turquoise jewelry, and Mexican food that stole the spotlight on its own. During dinner, an impressive parade of family members and old friends took the microphone, sharing stories and memories of Wyatt and Sophia, laughter and tears filling the historic halls. When the band came on, the dancing followed, and the night turned into exactly what it was meant to be — a celebration of love, friendship, and the wild spirit of Marfa.

Saturday’s ceremony took place beneath the famous Stardust sign — a weathered relic from another era, still humming with old magic. As she walked down the aisle, a live choir sang “Annie’s Song” by John Denver — a moment so cinematic there wasn’t a dry eye in sight. Dark clouds loomed heavy on the horizon, but somehow, the weather held out just long enough for Sophia and Wyatt to say “I do.” The reception roared on through the storm at the Capri — live music, a father’s serenade, Sophia jumping on stage to belt out “Proud Mary,” and a dance floor that refused to quit.

On the drive back to Midland, I kept thinking about something Jason, the bartender in Valentine, had said. “Jesus, Buddha, Muhammad — they all went to the desert to find themselves. People come here to do the same.” And he wasn’t wrong. The emptiness, the stars, the silence — it strips you down. You can’t hide here. The desert demands truth, whether you like it or not.

Maybe that’s what Sophia and Wyatt found in each other — a love unfiltered, untamed, big enough to feel at home in the middle of nowhere. Maybe that’s what draws people west in the first place: the chance to lose the noise and see what’s left.