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At the Chelsea Hotel

The bouquet of burning cannibis is drifting through the fourth floor corridors, and sloughing into my room through the thumb-wide gap at the top of the door. I guess it would be churlish to complain.

If you took one of the ancient student households, say of Storey St in Parkville, one that had been swapping tenants without giving up the lease for three or four decades, and turned it into a massive apartment building, and added daily maid service and mismatched Belle Epoque appointments, and dumped it in the heart of midtown New York, you might have something like the Chelsea Hotel.

Joseph | 12 Mar 2008