🕶️ Tucked just off a forgotten stretch of coastal highway sits The Ambassador Palms Resort, once the crown jewel of American leisure. Today, it’s a sun-faded relic, offering poolside service, vintage cocktails, and a live radio feed that always seems to be playing something from the Kennedy years.

Literally.

Visitors report the oddest sensation upon stepping onto the pool deck—like slipping through time. The air smells of chlorine, Coppertone, and cigarettes. The loungers are all retro mint-and-white vinyl. Music from a tinny speaker drifts across the water: Patsy Cline, Bobby Darin, and the soft, distant echo of Walter Cronkite’s voice announcing something ominous… over and over.

Some guests swear they’ve seen Jackie’s sunglasses resting on a side table. Others describe pool boys in crisp white uniforms that vanish when approached. A woman in a pillbox hat is often spotted wandering near the shallow end, mouthing something—over and over—but no one can hear the words. She disappears if you blink.

But the strangest reports come from guests who fall asleep in the cabanas and wake up to find their phones gone, their luggage switched out for vintage suitcases, and the date on the newspaper reading November 21, 1963.

Check out? Always tomorrow.

Vacation Tip: If someone offers you a Camel and asks if you “saw the motorcade,” it’s time to leave. Quickly.