Skip to main content

No Yurt for the Rabbit

For all those living in Gotham, I am sure you read the piece in Escapes this morning in the NYTimes about this lovely resort called Treebones that is in Big Sur, California.

Well, the Prince, rabbit and I just happen to be taking a one-week drive down the California coast in April and I called tonight to see if there's room:

"Will there be just the two of you?"
"Well, and my three-year-old daughter."
"Oooeeuuu. Well, we only have a certain number of families yurts (note to reader: hut)."
"Yes, we find, uh, it strikes, uh, a nice balance. We have nothing that night. Is there any flexibility? We have one night the week before and one the week after."
"Um, no. We'll still be in New York then."

So, not to sound like a snob, but the Rabbit has slept in a golden crib in The Ritz in Spain, and had breakfast in bed at The Cadogan in London. She's had waiters in white-tableclothed restaurants all over Gotham warm milk for her. I think she can handle a night in a yurt. More to the point: I think the people staying there can handle her as well. Would I rather listen to the sounds eminating from a yurt with a 3-year-old in bed by 8pm? ("zzzzzz") or those from a couple there for a romantic night? ("censored").

Plus, no where on their web site ( -- send them an email!) do they indicate that they try to "balance" the number of kids they allow. A little omission also missing from the Times story -- do we wonder why they don't mention it? Because it's simple: discrimination of any sort is vile and embarrassing.

Treebones Resort in Big Sur California? Not a good thing.


Mrs. Goodley said…
I think that could have been illegal. You should check it out.

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …