Honeymooning in Town? Go with The Crawford

The sleek black Tesla pulls silently into the parking lot of my office and a dapper chauffeur slides out, the sheen on his shoes reflecting my wife’s dress as he takes her bags. “Good afternoon,” he bids. Indeed. He pops the hood and loads our stuff (cargo goes in the front, yes) and I’m further enraptured by the Model S, sexy in its form but even sexier in its all-electric function. This is the Crawford’s “house car”?

“It’s basically an iPad with wheels,” he smiles as we settle in and marvel at the interior. He steps on the accelerator and the only sound on our quiet street is rubber on gravel as the office parking lot shrinks into oblivion in my sideview mirror. I’m on vacation now, I have to remind myself. I can’t seem to remove the anxiety that hit me that morning. Leaving my house for a weekend with no plane tickets, all of my trip wares fitting into a single duffel bag seems … not very vacation-y, I’ll admit.

We always talk about staycations, but do we honestly know how to? With our house and our pets and our office a few miles down the road, is it really “getting away from it all”?

The chauffeur opens the door and I step out to the white-noise whoosh of the fountain just outside The Crawford Hotel. Feels nice. The mist tickling around your ankles, cooling the moment in the waning heat of the late afternoon is a nice reminder that you haven’t even stepped through the threshold and your work-riddled, stress-tensed shoulders are already starting to uncramp.

I try not to let myself get too used to the time off. You’re still in Denver, remember? You’re not on vacation; anyone can call you back to your desk for an “emergency.” But once I step into Union Station’s sparkling Great Hall, with its gleaming, gilded, marbled interior, I’m transported to an era of petticoats and bowler caps, of bartenders in vests polishing heavy mugs and tipping their curled moustaches toward patrons saddling up for a brew while waiting on the train. Still in Denver …

A friendly face checks us in, informing me that our bags are being taken up to the room. I scan my surroundings as Friendly Face tinkers for a moment on her computer. Signs direct observers to restaurant and retail shops and the bustle is unmistakable. The place owes its name to Dana Crawford, our own living legend of urban revision. The redevelopment powerhouse’s work includes Larimer Square and pretty much any spot in this town that at one point needed a fresh face, like LoDo. I have to say, I love what she’s done with the place. Like a miniature Grand Central Station, polished marble floors, arched entryways, hardwood accents, and resplendence loom from 65 feet up.

A tall, thin gentleman breaks the spell. “Right this way,” he beams. A quick ride up the elevator and a short jaunt down a hallway that smells remarkably of fresh carpet and new paint and we’re at the door of the room. He leaves silently, tucking his tip into his crisp uniform and the door closes behind us. And instantly …

Ok, yeah. This is a vacation.

The room is immaculate and the first thing I notice are the wood beams that impart a “cabin” feel. Then it’s the iPad that’s connected to all things guest service charging on one of the nightstands. Then it’s the brilliant amenities like the polished metal and leather chest, the comfy leather couch, the giant flatscreen, and the beautifully-tinted baubles in the chandelier. I do the obligatory “let’s see the bathroom” and my breath leaves me. A deep, enormous garden tub stands alone, sparkling with a soap and salts selection for your soaking pleasure. The shower itself is, of course, nice (but that tub). The marble floors feel cool on my feet and I look forward to messing this room up later.

My wife is exhaling all her stress from the pillowy hug of the bed, her heels dangling from the tips of her toes. “This is good,” she confirms, staring at the ceiling. “This is great.” We unpack, examine a few more touches (the plush bathrobes being a favorite), and head out for a bite to eat.

In a sort of cruise-ship fashion, you don’t need to worry about your keys or parking or any of that hassle if you get hungry or need some retail therapy during your stay. You actually don’t need to leave the building at all.

Dinner

Kitchen Next Door is down a hallway similar to ours. We approach to an energetic buzz and are seated in short order. I’ll skip the lofty language that comprises most restaurant reviews and go straight for the kill: The calamari isn’t breaded. Good. The result is a non-greasy starter that stays true to the basics: salt, pepper, lemon, and squid. Their Manhattans are legendary and made in-house (ask about them). Their mushroom polenta ragout is creamy and to die. I’d recommend sitting outside; so many of the folks enjoying the libations were also enjoying the sound of their own scream.

Apres-dinner Drinks

Terminal Bar is dim. It’s that sexy lowlighting that makes anyone’s skin seem flawless while throwing mysterious shadows across the faces of people in corner booths. It has a remarkably European feel, but the bellylaughs and revelry are distinctly American. They pour heavy and no one dares complain.

Breakfast

Snooze delivers to the Crawford’s rooms. If you had a particularly sloshy night, go for the Reuben and fries. (Like a charm.) If sweetness tames the morning-after beast within, shut it down with their sweet potato pancakes with ginger butter.

So can a staycation actually relax your work-frazzled nerves? If The Crawford Hotel has anything to say about it, absolutely. 

Make your reservation today at TheCrawfordHotel.com