The Quest to be Remembered Well

This Christmas Eve, I tried to be remembered well at the Chelsea Hotel by doing what I do best: reviewing an establishment for Mapcidy. The Chelsea Hotel, or Hotel Chelsea, as it futilely insists it is called, is an 1883-established home and hotel to singers who kill their girlfriends, singers who perform oral sex on other singers and headquarters for the entourage of artists, drink-done in poets and me. I too once took place in the riotous history of the Chelsea Hotel.

 

With its interminable stairwell of artworks and vertiginous floors, prettily shambolically-assembled rooms and pleasant, near-genteel air of anything goes, the Chelsea Hotel is a one for the ages. You may not be there to pen 2001: A Space Odyssey or commit suicide, but that doesn’t mean you have to be stopped in your tracks by the overwhelming historical significance of the premises. No, sir!

 

Why, when I spent my Christmas Eve at the Chelsea Hotel, I indulged in the sultry half-light, stole (or rightly took, I mean they are assembled for use of guests) some soap and shampoo and made my own Chelsea Hotel memory. The Chelsea Hotel: History is yours!