Indolence Inn

One thing hasn’t changed since hotelier Frank Miller began promoting his Mission Inn around the turn of the century: Being there is the only purpose of going there. It isn’t a resort. There are no tennis courts, no putting greens, no game arcades, not even bingo. There is a large, handsome swimming pool, but even that amenity seems merely the central ornament of the hotel’s elegant garden, a place for sunbathing or reading in the shade, for indolence rather than exercise.

Indulging in indolence is just about the only activity at the Mission Inn. (There is a small, no-frills workout room for guests who, like my traveling companion, believe that sanity requires sweat.) There are three dining areas, two of which are so comfortable as to tempt you to nap in your chair after dessert. The third is simply unappetizing--high-ceilinged, hard-edged, gravy-colored and noisy. And there is a cocktail lounge, cool and dark, a place that also might tempt relaxation to the point of blissed-out oblivion if not for the TVs that seem locked onto ESPN.

If Miller, a lifelong teetotaler, came back from the beyond, he’d die twice over to see a bar occupying what had been the most revered room on his premises--a suite he had done up to the height of comfort and good taste for a visit from Teddy Roosevelt.

A self-educated man of eclectic interests and newfound means, Miller began traveling the world and adding wings to the inn just seven years after its 1903 opening, each one a souvenir of a different architectural twist that had impressed him: Gothic, Moorish, Tudor, Italian Renaissance, Japanese. Then came the appointments: Every facade, balcony, stairwell, light fixture and window got its embellishment--Della Robbia ceramics, Tiffany stained glass, gold-leaf and marble, tiles and ironwork, heraldry in the hallways and statues of saints imparting blessings from odd nooks and half-hidden passageways. It is not at all vulgar but surprisingly harmonious and utterly bewitching.

I was not enthusiastic about a stay at the Mission Inn; that was my friend Kathy’s idea. It’s all kitsch, I said. “So?” she said.

We had no trouble getting spur-of-the-moment weekend reservations for an inexpensive room in early October, but there are blocks of time when the hotel is solidly booked long in advance. (For example, as of press time Wednesday, the upcoming Valentine’s day weekend was close to solidly booked, with the exception of some suites.) Rates fluctuate according to availability, from a base range of $115 to $210. There is no off season; tours keep the inn busy year-round.

Kathy had that Friday off and decided to drive down early, the trip from downtown Los Angeles to Riverside on a Friday evening being only a little less tiresome than in Roosevelt’s day. I would take the train after work, which inspired me: We would try to spend the weekend without using the car, even though the weather was fiercely hot and dry.

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The Metrolink depot is less than a mile from the inn, an easy walk if you’re not encumbered with a suitcase--and if the temperature is below 100 degrees. A better bet was at the curb: the Orange Express, a trolley replica costing 25 cents a ride.

Our room in one of the original wings was unremarkable, upscale-hotel elegant, without a clue of what lay beyond: a world of dizzying fantasy and sensory richness that is literally breathtaking. We walked along the open gallery overlooking the Spanish Patio restaurant, our heads on swivels, our mouths agape. Look! Look! Look! Too much to look at, to sort out. No question about it: Dinner would be in the patio. Lights winked in the trees, stars emerged, a riffle of a breeze stirred the banners and flags. And something new awaited our pleasure: a wine list that offered tastings of just about every bottle listed. Two tastings of a scant 2 ounces each were $6, three for $9, four for $12. They could be had as a before-dinner sampling to assist in the choice of a full glass or a bottle, or to complement the dinner as the courses progressed.

All that decision-making was exhausting. Kathy is an L.A. schoolteacher, and she usually rises about 4:30 a.m. to start her work day by 7, so her idea of sleeping in is still a bit spartan for me. By the time I got up, Kathy had done her exercises, had coffee and read the paper, and by the time we got to Simple Simon’s, a cafe on the mall across from the inn, the lunch menu was going up. Here’s where indulgence comes in: We ordered a BLT easily big enough for two and chocolate bread pudding, Simon’s breakfast staple. We ate outside and with endless coffee refills lost track of the time; the inn’s carillon had already become just so much background noise.

Taking a guided tour of the inn is a must. When the 11:30 tour was ready to leave, I was docent Julie Flores’ only customer; at 11:31, off we went. Not all of the tours are the same; different parts of the hotel are open or closed to guests at different times, often depending on weddings and other functions wishing to remain private. It was a big wedding weekend at the hotel--seven, someone said--so we had to bypass the heart and soul of Frank Miller’s creation, the St. Francis Chapel with its 18th century gold-leaf altar and Louis Tiffany windows.

Some areas of the inn that are off-limits to the public are open to the tour. And quite a few areas are posted simply as “closed,” even though access is not physically barred. The reason: that modern bugaboo, liability. The inn’s bumpy-tiled walkways and steep spiraling staircases that turn slick in evening dew must be an insurer’s nightmare. But the enterprising, careful, discreet guest of the inn can walk just about anywhere. Which I did, after dinner Saturday night. Up and down, from Cloister Wing to Authors’ Row, from the Court of the Orient to the Rotunda, across terraces and down walkways, looking into rooms left open to view, no two alike.

But I am ahead of myself. Back to Saturday afternoon. The heat persuaded us to skip a trolley ride to UC Riverside’s Botanical Gardens. (We stopped on the way home, and were glad we did; it is most unusual--and free.) We agreed to go our separate ways until 6 o’clock, when we met up and, fortified with an industrial-strength latte, got ready for dinner on the town.

There are three chain restaurants between the inn and the railroad depot, and one non-chain that a friend had recommended. The walk there was pleasant, but the restaurant was a disappointment, crowded, and with just enough crying children to discourage a middle-ager’s digestion. The only alternative was back at the inn--Duane’s Steak House, expensive but, at the end of a hot day of walking, worth every dime, calorie and cholesterol gram. Teddy Roosevelt should have had it so good.

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Budget for Two

Double room, two nights: $299.70

Dinner, Spanish Patio: 90.93

Brunch, Simple Simon’s: 10.43

Inn tour, museum admission: 10.00

Dinner, Duane’s, with wine: 118.44

Metrolink, gas: 11.00

FINAL TAB: $540.50

The Mission Inn, 3696 Main St., Riverside, CA 92501; reservations (800) 843-7755.