Candy Cane Inn
This isn’t our first trip to California Disneyland, having travelled here for a Disney 100 trip a few years prior, but it was our first stay at the most adorable, off-property location in Anaheim: The Candy Cane Inn. Doesn’t it just sound appealing? I mean, you could name anything after a sweet treat and get the same results: The Lollypop Lodge, Gumdrop Guesthouse, Butterfinger Bed and Breakfast. Though maybe not the last one. I imagine you would have to field unsavoury calls from would-be guests who mistook it for the Buttfingerer Bed and Breakfast. Other than that, I’d go to any of them.
But The Candy Cane Inn, oh, it was in our dreams from the moment we first saw the adorable trolley car trundling down the boulevard, its driver enthusiastically waving his giant Mickey hand at every passerby whenever stopped at a set of lights. Unfortunately, for us, during our first trip, we were merely those passersby. Trudging our way to Disneyland through thick plumes of pot smoke like we were extras in ‘Cheech And Chong Do Disneyland’. Our hotel at the time was a few blocks away from the Disneyland bubble and severely lacked the amenities that would normally allow a hotel to remove the ‘S’ from hostel. It was called the Candlewood Inn. And don’t get me wrong, it was great; If you are into long, Stanley Kubrick-esque hallways that reek of wet socks and parental disapproval, creepy garages that were probably the shooting location of a recent snuff film, and the general vibe of a place where screams for help are as common as wolf-whistles.
…Trudging our way to Disneyland through thick plumes of pot smoke like we were extras in ‘Cheech And Chong Do Disneyland’…
Thankfully, we had the good sense to book our preferred hotel this time; Part of our ongoing belief that one should save for the holiday they want, not the one they can just afford. In fairness to The Candy Cane Inn, though it is pricier than the Cadlewood, it is much more reasonable than an on-property hotel. And any lingering thoughts of money evaporated the very moment our Uber pulled into the driveway, rounded the water fountain, and pulled up under the arched canopy. Walking into the foyer as two beleaguered, plane-ragged tourists, an exuberant and friendly clerk looked up, smiled a perfect Californian smile and enthusiastically exclaimed, “Welcome! And happy Valentine’s Day!”.
The desk and surrounding areas were dotted with candy-cane-shaped pens that had been neatly arranged into elongated hearts just for the occasion. Which was a touch we genuinely appreciated, as we had celebrated the 14th of February for nearly 40 hours so far without so much as a fat naked baby to speak of. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and hot chocolate from the beverage table by the window, and, despite my aversion to any and all American coffee, I was so exhausted I would have freely drunk this ‘burnt garden fertiliser’ before common sense could stop me. And before all you Joffrey’s cultists get all jittery and riled up, have a glass of water, flush the Shaky Jamaky from your system, and hear me when I say: There is a reason Australia is regarded as possessing an exceptional coffee culture, even when you factor in that we aren’t a major coffee-growing region; it’s one of the only things we take seriously. So don’t go sending me packets of Roastmaster’s Reserve; nobody deserves that.
Check-in at the Candy Cane Inn was not just easy, but even through the thick fog of exhaustion, it was fun. She poked fun at our accents, and we poked fun at hers. The clerk was attentive to our needs and even understood the vague questions our plane air-dehydrated brains could manage to convert to speech. After handing us our keycards and directing us to our rooms, we grabbed our bags and several candy-cane-shaped pens and trundled our cases out through the breakfast area and into the courtyard.
The quaint courtyard is home to a tourist soup bowl (a pool), striped umbrellas, and ample shared seating, and is flanked by dual two-story wings. The property is dotted with palm trees, and the parking lot is a piano of monochrome Yank-tanks and EVs. Our room is on the second floor, just to the right of the main reception, and our only criticism of the entire space is: stairs. But once I had, in a rare display of masculinity, carried both our cases up, we entered the room that was to be our home for the next two nights.
How do I describe the room? As a man who just spent a considerable amount of time detailing the banal activity that is a flight from Sydney to LA, I find myself with only one word: American. The room is just so… American. But that is less of a visual description and more of a feeling. It was clean, with two queen beds, and lots of amenities, including the customary burnt fertiliser maker next to the bathroom sink. While the plantations style shutters didn’t block out all the light, they served as a reminder that there was a bright and exciting world out there, experiences to be had, people to meet, and a whole freaking Disneyland to conquer! I was not in the mood for this at all. At this point, all I wanted to do was shower, curl up in one of those queen beds that were provocatively calling my name, and just sleep. But, alas, we had shit to do. So after documenting the room for the fledgling social media empire we were building (I say with my tongue so firmly lodged in my cheek I look like I’m smuggling a gold ball in my mouth), we unpacked our suitcase, headed out onto the Boulevard, and dragged our stiff bodies to Downtown Disney for dinner before retiring to bed. If we were going to make it through the next two days, we were going to need some rest.
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