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Published in the April 29, 2007 Travel Section of The Albany Times Union By Stacey Morris Special to The Times Union
VISTA, CALIF. – I have Oprah to thank for this, I thought, as I lay partially swathed in a towel while a massage therapist named Irene bore a thumb into the sweet spot of my right shoulder blade. Softly, she reminded me to breathe and then soothed me with stories of the hilltop town in the south of Mexico where her grandmother grew up. Suddenly, the knot that had taken up permanent residence in my upper back since my cross-country flight 48 hours ago had vanished. By the time Irene finished unknotting me with her capable hands, I was so relaxed I was wobbly. “You’ve got spa brain,” smiled Glenda, a regular visitor from Memphis, observing my unsteady gait along the flower-lined path outside the treatment pavilion. “It happens after you’ve been here a few days.” Good thing the only tasks left on my daily calendar were a scalp massage and facial. Such is the life at Cal-A-Vie, a small but luxurious spa nestled in the hills north of San Diego. Everything from its name to Cal-A-Vie’s architecture pays homage to French-influenced elegance, but its primary purpose is to infuse visitors with a seamless blending of health and pampering, which it achieves through its high-tech fitness center, attentive staff, low-calorie nouvelle cuisine, and multiple rounds of daily spa treatments. The spa has been open since 1987, but it was Oprah Winfrey who shot Cal-A-Vie to stardom in the early ‘90s. Legend has it that after one of her visits, Winfrey was so taken with the cuisine, she invited head chef Rosie Daley to become her personal chef. Daley subsequently published the wildly popular cookbook based on recipes she used at Cal-A-Vie, “In the Kitchen with Rosie: Oprah’s Favorite Recipes,” and ever since, I had dreamed of making my own pilgrimage to the spa. There must be something to the adage that one’s sense of entitlement increases proportionately with age because in March, I finally took the plunge. For the past three years, I’ve been hoisting weights at my neighborhood gym, diligently partaking in weekly cardio sessions, and pampering myself with the occasional mineral bath and massage. I concluded that a visit to Cal-A-Vie (a French paraphrase for “The California Life,”) would be an extension of all that effort, and an indulgent vacation all rolled into one. “Why not?” I murmured, dialing the reservation line. “Just consider it a belated 40th birthday gift to yourself.” Soon an orientation folder arrived in my mailbox with suggestions on how to prepare for my visit: pack an indoor and outdoor pair of exercise shoes and plenty of sunscreen. Work-out wear and robes would be provided by the spa but it would be my job to pre-adjust to the fitness oriented lifestyle at Cal-A-Vie by weaning myself away from more calorically dense food choices, and well as upping my physical activity. One resounding thought went through my mind after reading the last two suggestions: I’m being prepped for an extended period of suffering. Without warning, I was smack in the middle of a flashback to my first destination spa experience, a misadventure I embarked on circa the mid-‘80s. It was billed in the brochure as a glorious getaway with amenities that included a view of the Pacific, delectable low-calorie menus, and a smorgasbord of physical fitness classes. The real-life version was headquartered in a Quality Inn motel in Orange County, somewhere in between Disneyland and Knots Berry Farm. Aerobic dance classes were held in the game room, where we attempted to get our groove on in spite of the engulfing presence of a ping-pong table. Aqua-size classes at the pool were conducted in full view of the other guests, by an instructor so mean, she made Lou Gossett Jr.’s character from An Officer and A Gentleman look like a Romper Room hostess. Then there was the food, which turned out to be flavorless and uninteresting (unless you had an Iceberg lettuce fetish). Even in my state of semi-starvation, I was repelled by yet another bone-dry, broiled skinless chicken breast for dinner. By the third day I began escaping to the Howard Johnson’s next door for all-you-can-eat fish fry’s. So, when I finally walked through Cal-A-Vie’s wrought iron gates, I was braced for some serious deprivation, and perhaps a little suffering. A smiling blonde named Debbie greeted me then escorted me to orientation with a woman named Nani. I sat rigid across the desk from Nani, waiting for her to recite the house rules. I even thought I heard the gates clanking shut, but that could have been another flashback. “We start our days here with either a 6 a.m. walk or a hike,” she smiled. “If you want to. Not everyone does it, but most guests do.” “If we want to,” I stammered. “You mean…it’s up to us?” Nani went on to explain that there were no mandates. “If you don’t want to attend an exercise class, don’t feel bad. This is your time,” she said. “Some people come to relax, others want to detox, and others want to jump-start their health…your time here is for whatever you want it for.” The strategy proved genius because magically, when it was left in the realm of my choice, I decided that heck, as long as I’m here, I may as well put in a 5:50 a.m. wake-up call. But instead of walking (I can do that anywhere) I headed to the elegantly appointed fitness pavilion, where I had the place (and stereo system) to myself for a 40-minute workout on the recumbent bike. Following a breakfast of coffee, vegetable frittata and wheat toast, I commenced the first half of the day: Circuit Training, Yoga, and Latin Dance. When classes were over, I was red as a Beefsteak tomato and drenched with sweat, but the physical rigors were smoothed over with pampering touches: French antiques scattered throughout the exercise pavilion, glass decanters of mouthwash in restrooms, fresh towels and bottled water in every exercise room, elegant stone sinks in the weight room and lobby where the spigots ran water purified by reverse osmosis. After walking through French glass doors to a stone terrace for a stretching cool-down, I began to forget that I’d just spent the past three hours huffing and puffing. I was, however, more than ready for the 1 p.m. lunch break, taken in an open-air courtyard next to a cascading waterfall. I dove into the orchid-garnished chicken salad with wild rice as two sisters from Ohio told me why they return each year to Cal-A-Vie. “When I first came here, I thought, nothing could be worth this much money, but it is,” said Peg, as she sprinkled a spoonful of flax seeds over her salad. “It’s the food, spa services, fitness instructors and accommodations. I mean, they wash your clothing everyday. When it was time to go home that first year, I cried.” “So now we come back every March,” said Kathy. “It’s a way of recommitting to a healthy lifestyle and a good jump-start for exercise.” “Everyone knows your name here,” said Lesia from Chicago as she took a bite of an apple. “I like that. At the last spa I stayed at there were 125 guests, it was madness.” Among the 25 other guests there during my stay were a few couples and women like me who just plain wanted to get away from it all and treat themselves. More notably, there was a paparazzi-hounded star who became a household name doing sit-coms, and an uber-glamourous New Yorker who I later learned was a member of that elite club known as former Bond Girls. In between spa treatments and dinner, there were nutrition and fitness lectures and cooking demonstrations, where chefs Steve Pernetti and Jason Graham taught tricks of the low-calorie trade such as substituting all-natural Agave syrup for sugar and using Arrowroot instead of cornstarch to thicken sauces. The days at Cal-A-Vie were always full, but somehow managed to feel carefree. Truthfully, there wasn’t much to concern myself with: The maid service, which included the daily retrieval of dirty laundry, was impeccable. Not only was my bed turned down every evening, a monogrammed card with an inspirational quote from the likes of Emerson and Margaret Thatcher was placed atop the artfully arranged pillows. If I craved Internet or television, there was the always-open communal lounge with its overstuffed couches and bowls of fruit and organic herbal teas at the ready. And if we wanted quiet contemplation, there was a massive labyrinth and a 17th-century chapel on a nearby hill that was brought over from France and rebuilt stone by stone. One evening, as I finished a dinner of Hoisen-Crusted Mahi Mahi, Wasabi Mashed Potatoes and Mango Mousse for dessert, I came to a startling realization: I’d been eating low-calorie food all week and yet I wasn’t a latent volcano of irritability, ready to blow. The next day I made a beeline for the boutique and purchased the Cal-A-Vie cookbook. I was getting used to it all. Sleeping between luxurious Frette sheets. Being awakened each morning with a tray of cottage cheese and fresh berries delivered to my door. Throwing on exercise garb and stepping onto the garden path outside my room with the moon and stars still hovering in the black sky above me, the morning air filled with the scent of jasmine. There’d be stretching, sweating, and, ok, some grunting. Exertion, after all, is part of the fitness formula. But I smiled at the thought of it all being evened out that afternoon with hot stone massage, hydrotherapy, and a reflexology treatment. Who could argue with such a reasonable equation?
Cal-A-Vie offers packages ranging from three to seven nights. Rates range from $3,395-$6,995 depending on package and length of stay. For reservations and information, call (866) 772-4283, or visit www.cal-a-vie.com .
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