and by empire…I am of course referring to the many hotels the FruitFly and her fruity minions inhabit in a single week.
I am the emperor of hotel hopping. From dingy motels in the outskirts of the The Inland Empire to suites with free upgrades overlooking Bryant Park, my life can be traced in mini shampoo bottles and late 
night room service. It all began at the ripe age of birth. I exited the womb demanding turn-down service. Though most of youth was spent on roll-aways placed awkwardly close to my parents’ king size bed, I immediately became obsessed with the idea of a temporary home. The stay would never exceed a week, therefore limiting my attachment to the location yet exponentially increasing my obsession with the pre-packaged quirks. In Berlin I was once greeted by a bath butler who intricately placed rose petals on top of my soap suds. In Atlantic City, my 5am drunken calls to the concierge demanding a tour of the Penthouse suite were met with enthusiasm rather than dismay. And most recently, in New York, I reserved a bunkbed room in the heart of Times Square that included a 24-hour steam room in which William and I were mistaken for inappropriate German tourists.
I insist on changing apartments at least once a year. This may be the fault of my many years of hotel dabbling. Where is my information packet describing the closest dry cleaner and Church services? Where is my nighttime mint accompanied by my erasable note mentioning tomorrow’s weather? Where is my pad and pencil? Where is my over-sized remote for my undersized TV? Where is my keycard, my shower cap, my complimentary bottle of water? Most of all, where is the delusion that nothing exists outside of the double-latched door? This is the ideal life. The life lived within wake up calls, bell service, overpriced mini vodka bottles. The life not lived as Eloise, as she had far too much class. This is the life of a Broadway icon who took far too many pills and has earned far too much money to deal with a real home. On suicide watch, the balcony hours have been limited to the daytime for fear she would jump. The front desk not only handles her mail, they also handle the unruly paparazzi. Her room has become more a legend that the legend itself. Simply sublime.
The New York Tally thus far: Bryant Park Hotel, Chelsea Hotel, Roommate Grace, Ace, W, Night Hotel, Thompson LES, East Houston Hotel, The Carlyle, Gramercy Park Hotel, Chambers and Gild Hall. These I have had rooms reserved. The list of those I have attended parties at would be far longer. It has admittedly gotten to a point of disease. I rationalize my reservations with irrational explanations. For instance, when booking the disaster that was The Chelsea Hotel, I decided that the money I would have spent on U2 tickets is now going towards a deluxe superior queen. I had no plans on buying U2 tickets. My rent has recently lowered. To make up for the saved money? Book a top floor corner of course! Thankfully, the obsession has yet to transcend into San Francisco. Though I am sure, come a year of occupancy, my credit card will be swiped at The Clift. Plastic orange coke table delight.
I could begin to relate my love of hotels to the bigger issue of me never feeling settled. But until my sanity cuts me off both financially and psychically, I see no problems living in a 2nd floor fitness center dream. God knows, I don’t ask for much. I just want a tip-only maid, Porn on demand and a consistent stream of vacant taxis. Then, I would finally be happy.