So, as my hubby tucks into a weeks worth of training for his job, my little guy and I bide our time back at the hotel.
This morning, sitting in the lobby just long enough to add a hat and coat to Levi's ensemble for battling the nip in the morning air (yes, even in May, and such a task takes longer than you may assume); I watched as many people checked in, some checked out, several mingled, and a few loitered.
Being here with little purpose, but to continue taking care of my son and carry out daily tasks (thankfully minus the housework) gets me thinking about those residents, past and present, who have made a hotel their home.
The Chelsea Hotel in NYC has been home to Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Leonard Cohen, Jackson Pollock & Dylan Thomas, among others.
The notion of hotel living has always been a romantic one and it's no wonder. A constant influx of new and interesting people; each with their stories to tell, or secrets to hide; setting the scene for the storyteller, the incredibly curious and the highly imaginative.
Love, hate, pleasure, passion (both romantic and criminal), camaraderie & loneliness, could there be a more ideal setting for one's mind to wander?
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