“You picked the right hotel,” the driver said. “Sure, some people like the other hotels here—the St. Regis, Little Nell—but there’s only one that has it all. History, celebrity, luxury. From the very beginning. Can you imagine it’s been here since 1889? This hotel has seen everything. Prospered during the boom, survived the silver crash, the depression. The revival. All the revivals. Owners have changed hands more times than I can count. If there’s one certainty in Aspen, it’s uncertainty. Not much thrives on consistency; it’s reinvention. Adaptation. That’s good news for you. These days, it’s fit for a queen.”

When Pip and I walked into the lobby, we knew he was right.

I always love this story I once heard about one of those old queens of England. She wants to know what life is like as an ordinary girl. So she steals clothes from one of her servants’ children and runs out of the palace into the countryside. Soon she comes upon another little girl around her same age. They spend the afternoon together, racing each other through the fields and picking flowers and chasing bunny rabbits. Eventually they sit down on a rock wall to catch their breath. A cool breeze brushes the little queen’s hair from her face, her cheeks rosy from so much running. A frog hops by.

Then the girl says to the queen, “If you could be anything in the world when you grow up, what would you be?”

The queen looks around. Here they are in the countryside. It’s so pleasant. So peaceful. The girl’s house is in the distance, at the bottom of a sloping hill. It has a fat thatched roof, and the homemade lace curtains flutter in the breeze. A curl of thin smoke rising from the chimney. The girl’s father and mother are surely tucked inside, dinner being prepared, a peaceful night ahead. The girl looks proud as she watches the little queen’s face take in all that is her life.

Then the little queen turns to her and says, “I want to be the fucking queen of England.”

With that, she pops off that rock wall and skips her way back to the palace.