Notes From the St. Regis: High Altitude, Snow Polo, and A-List Après-Ski

In The Andy Warhol Diaries, Interview’s founder logged his comings and goings from Aspen almost as faithfully as he did Studio 54. A disco bunny, yes—but also a committed snow bunny, decamping by private jet with a rotating cast of beautiful people, bouncing from disco-laced house parties with Diana Ross to dark nightclubs with Jack Nicholson and slope-side run-ins with the Kennedys that felt more velvet rope than ski lodge. Warhol hated the altitude but loved the altitude of society, eventually buying 40 acres there and famously dubbing Aspen “a toy town”—plastic, polished, and made for play. Decades later, that jet-set energy hasn’t gone anywhere, and the St. Regis Aspen Resort stands at the center of it all. 

Last week, the hotel’s lobby hummed as snow-dusted boots stomped through its gilded mountain living room, marking the unofficial start of Aspen’s social calendar. It was Mariah season—yes, that Mariah—with the grande dame of Christmas herself holding court, Mikey Madison draped across a velvet chaise, and Colman Domingo, fabulously furred and accompanied by his husband, sipping fireside cocktails like the lobby was a Parisian salon. A New York institution by lineage, the St. Regis brings Gilded Age glamour to the slopes, where dark wood walls and crackling fires make diamonds and cowboy boots feel like a logical pairing. After tequila pours at Kemo Sabe or late-night spins at Caribou Club, everyone inevitably funnels back to the hotel as the town’s social nerve center. 

In proper Warhol diary mode, I checked into the snow-capped hotel ahead of the thirteenth World Snow Polo Championship and spent the week wandering, watching, and writing things down—like Kevin McCallister, but with a martini. 

———

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 16

 

8:05 AM

Paris → Poland → Los Angeles. Fourteen hours or so. At LAX you don’t need a gate number to spot the Aspen flight: a Pretty Little Liars actress turned suitcase entrepreneur in hiding, The Row zipper boots everywhere, cowboy hats paired with Alo tracksuits. I take my final sales call of the year before boarding, thinking seriously about how the magazine can work with more rodeo brands in 2026.

12:46 PM

I land in Aspen and immediately feel the altitude. Everyone scurries into the tiny carpeted terminal like it’s a fire drill. This airport always feels like a high school reunion—people fawning, pretending they haven’t seen each other in decades, making elaborate ski plans they definitely won’t keep. My luggage appears, I find my driver, tell him about my early-onset lower back arthritis, and he warns me not to ski. Love a realist. 

 

1:03 PM

Check-in feels vaguely New England boarding school. Cozy, chic, whispery. A model I recognize ahead of me requests six pillows to be delivered to her room while she skis. I think about Kay Thompson and Eloise—top floor, please. My room is ready and positively heavenly. King bed, mountain view. Airplanes gross me out, so I draw a bath, order a cheeseburger stamped with the hotel logo, eat half, and pass out.

7:32 PM 

After unpacking 100 pounds of cashmere and shearling, I steam everything like a nervous tic. Welcome cocktail at the Hennessy Paradis Lounge, a few doors down. I meet Charlotte of The Fashion Guitar and Bo Roobol Mulder. We talk New Canaan (where Bo and my boss both live), my failing French, and a Dutch language school called The Nuns where you can apparently learn a language in one-week. I decide I’ll be a French-speaking nun next year. Warm brown liquor on silver trays is served, and snowboarding extraordinaire Shaun White gives a speech. Stroll back to my room, apply an overnight mask, crack the window, and it’s lights out. 

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 17

 

6:05 AM

I’m an early bird and a creature of habit, usually awake before the sun. Aspen doesn’t change that. I take my morning bath, read 40 pages of Hollywood Wives, and order a pot of hot coffee with a basket of English muffins. I never eat breakfast, but a man I’ve been dating recently shamed me into it, and now I own muffins.

11:15 AM

I’m not much of an animal person, but I’m obsessed with the St. Regis resident dog, Kitty Jacob Astor II—a ginormous breed I can’t name and incredibly chic. We ride five floors together and I feel like a guest in her hotel. Down in the RAKxa Wellness Spa, wrapped in a fluffy robe, a Star Wars–level robot named Harry steers me through a guided meditation. Warm air pulses, the machine vibrates, and I have a good cry. I sit in the oxygen room answering emails, then get a facial. The facialist is stunned by my skin. I explain A313, pre-TikTok, back when Gwyneth first wrote about it on Goop almost twenty years ago. Am I old? 

1:22 PM

I meet the group in the lobby and notice Mikey Madison’s haircut before I notice anything else. It’s blunt and very right. Lunch at Clark’s Oyster Bar: lobster claws, white wine, Kyle Richards spotting. I panic-bid on Studio 54 ephemera I’ve been monitoring, eat the best chicken paillard of my life, wander into a few stores, and return to the hotel for a nap. I love Aspen.

7:15 PM 

I get dressed in a blush pink Charvet shirt and tie and call my sister to discuss her newest boyfriend, this time a rock-and-roll scion. I leave my room wondering if I look too Place Vendôme and not enough Yellowstone. I cross the courtyard past a massive Christmas tree and head to the St. Regis’ STAUD pop-up tent at the hotel. At the cocktail there’s no vodka, only white wine and opinions. Shaun White delivers another speech and sabers a bottle of champagne. If I tried that I’d lose a hand, but at least I’m dressed for my own funeral.

8:07 PM

I walk to the welcome dinner with a Vogue editor, trading fashion fodder en route. Dinner is at The Wild Fig, hosted by the St. Regis and STAUD. I spot my friend Nathan, an Aspen local and menswear buyer at Pitkin County Dry Goods, who promptly orders me a vodka martini and introduces his handsome Australian husband. Phoebe Dynevor from Bridgerton is nearby. The night turns into musical chairs, gossip, and a spirited post-mortem of my London ex lover, whom Nathan also knows—and whom I will probably date again. TBD.

 

10:17 PM

Back at the hotel, the dinner spills into the sunken living room—cushioned seats, pleasantries, shots circulating. Colman Domingo and his husband, Raúl, sit across from me in enormous fur coats and even bigger smiles. They are couples’ goals. Two martinis in, I’m very chatty and suddenly starving. I go upstairs and order a pizza.

 

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 18

6:32 AM

I wake up with a light hangover. I blame the altitude, but it’s probably the Belvedere. Coffee and a bagel in bed, texting the aforementioned ex-lover about Christmas wish lists—three Hermès bags and quitting smoking are on mine. The new season of Emily in Paris on for background noise. I delete Hinge and decide I’ll meet my husband IRL next year. Raya can expire.

11:45 AM

I put on a ginormous vintage Giorgio Armani shearling from the Fall 1997 collection that weighs at least 15 pounds and immediately feel important. We walk to Rio Grande Park for the St. Regis Snow Polo finals, and there’s a buzz because Prince Harry is playing. Despite being a pilgrim, I’ve always been obsessed with the British monarchy. In the VIP section, I spot Goldie Hawn, blonde and bundled in fur, and Kurt Russell looking like a proper mountain daddy. Champagne flows and everyone seems unusually happy, like they know they’re exactly where they should be. 

1:20 PM

The games begin and Prince Harry rides onto the field, which still feels surreal. Snow polo is thrilling—fast, cold, slightly absurd in the most fab way. Colman Domingo and I pretend to be straight men watching sports, fist-bumping and lowering our voices. I wander off to people-watch and spot Kyle Richards again, impossibly tiny and carrying a massive Birkin, which feels like performance art. Vodka orange juice in hand, I return just in time to watch the St. Regis team win. The players circle the field, we high-five them like old friends, and the team captain Nacho Figueras sabers a bottle of champagne. People love doing that in this town.

4:05 PM

Back to the hotel to nap and properly enjoy the room. Like a child, I order a grilled cheese from the kids’ menu and eat it in bed. Korean eye patches on, I think about New Year’s and decide on Milan. Another bath. Aspen encourages baths.

 

8:32 PM

Caviar Kaspia pops up in the Jade Room at the hotel—green, velvet, and very chic. Paris is never far. At my table I sit next to George Sotelo, who brought Kaspia to the St. Regis and is very lovely. Chicken nuggets and baked potatoes arrive buried under different kinds of caviar. Gossip floats from Shohei Ohtani to Mariah Carey buying hats at Kemo Sabe and going non-verbal. I alternate between champagne and vodka martinis and briefly consider Aspen gay ski week. It sounds dangerous.

 

10:47 PM

We head to the Caribou Club in a St. Regis shuttle with Zachary Weiss and George. Zach looks like Ralph Lauren wrapped in a blanket with a cowboy hat. I’m jealous of his look. I spot Kyle Richards once again but don’t approach—Real Housewives is my religion and I’m afraid of flying too close to the sun. I briefly chat with Nepo babies I know from Paris, Mikey Madison hovers nearby, and there are rare gemstones everywhere. I decide I want to come to Aspen every year.