Verônika Shülman

When you walk into a hotel, take the Chateau Marmont for example, everything feels glittery and bright. Every day is like Christmas morning. There is a sense of communal celebration, an understanding of understated, agnostic giddiness, just to be alive. Walt Whitman once wrote, “Have you ever supposed it is lucky to be born?”

Yes, it is lucky. And when you walk into the Chateau, a storied Hollywood canyon homefront with particles of rockstarriness oozing from its green velvet thrones and creamy stucco walls, you feel lucky.

You are handed a brass key with a dark emerald-colored tassel and that, even, feels special. There is a buzz of wine glasses clinking and people chattering away in the courtyard, and it has that feeling of being on a beach vacation around sundown, when you are toasted and warm and you’ve just gotten out of the shower and draped yourself in a fresh linen shirt.

It is no secret that rock stars love hotels. Being in the rock & roll world, I have thought about this a lot. I think in a lot of ways, music and hotels have a similar north star. You could argue that contemporary music, especially music with a distinct Bacchanalian bent, is working not to capture the ephemeral, but to indulge it. Not to question magic, but to build a farm house from it and live there as long as the universe allows.

Imagine a rock star entering a hotel. You can choose your own rock star. Patti Smith. Lenny Kravitz. Mick Jagger. Jimi Hendrix. John Lennon & Yoko Ono. Pick your poison. Or, imagine it’s you. Upon entering, you are greeted with understated glory. The kids at the front desk take your leather, weathered bags to your room. Once you get up there, you throw your suede coat onto the bed and see a bottle of Veuve Cliquot chilling in a silver bucket.

Notice, you have not been stopped or challenged at any point. You have given your credit card, a small symbol of your mutual investment in this experience. But you haven’t been asked a single question, not even your name. You stay as long as your gig requires. You might write some lyrics on a notepad, phone up a friend, or dance around to Charlotte Gainsbourg as if the aging diplomats in the courtyard can’t see your silhouette. Eventually, you leave. By then, everyone in the hotel is your friend. They wave goodbye, give you gentle hugs, and the girl at the restaurant who you had that wonderful conversation even sheds a small tear. She doesn’t want you to leave. You steal the key to keep the memories. They’ll charge you $100, but it’ll be worth it.

Hotels pray to the moment. The fleeting. The freeing. The indoor/outdoor inhale/exhale no need to understand, just be. This is the language of poets and mystics, and the language of magical realism. Sometimes there is something we cannot quite grasp or digest, and we all know that nothing lasts forever.

Both rock & roll and hotel culture have a deep understanding of this. And in the face of uncertainty, sorrow, mystery, the rituals of day and night, of winter and summer, the decision in both cases is to dance. To live. To not only exist but to get to the core of the moment, like James in his giant peach or Cezanne with his apples. To still and distill enough to celebrate essence. This is Plato’s vision.

And yet, when it really is most important, in moments of marginalization, we cannot do it. When we are on the precipice of injustice, incarceration, and inequality, we forget this evolution. We forget how far we have come. Why?

Can we not extend this exact approach of radical hospitality, celebration of the stranger, to the humans who need it the absolute most? A few years ago, I found out someone was using my social security number. Valentín Damasco was the name he gave. Whenever I told this story to family or friends, they got immediately incensed. How dare he? To be honest, it didn’t affect my life at all. It was fairly simple to prove that I was, in fact, who I said I was, and get all of the documents I needed. I passed every background check. If Valentín got a job in part because of me, that makes me happy. And I know this is an odd approach. But empathy is a happy place for me. It is easy. It is easier than being hard. Yoga teaches that we are all connected, and we are all one. 

Why should I have a social security number, rather than him?
What sundry moments of luck and provenance landed me at Oxford, while he worked in some field or factory to find his way to freedom? 

Most humans who are undocumented, incarcerated, or marginalized in any strange combination of ways, are not “bad.” There is not really any such thing as a “criminal.” That is a social construct. If a criminal is someone who has done something wrong or bad or illegal, then we are all criminals. We are the United Criminals of America. But maybe, just maybe, we are all good. We are all human. And people that lash out, whether someone like Valentín or someone like our president, do it out of desperation.

Out of fear that they will not survive. That they will not be happy. That they do not belong. There is so much future fear, fear of what will happen. This is where we can edit. We can instead welcome the outsider and celebrate them. Just as they are. No questions asked. We can treat our country like a glamorous, wild hotel. We can treat criminals like rockstars.

We can employ bohemianism as utilitarianism.
We can infuse this dreamstate into our mundane lives.
Into policies.

When we do this, we employ the alluring power of God. Of glamour. Of rock & roll. Together, we can cultivate a community of blind love. We know love is blind, anyway. Why are we pretending? Open your eyes. Open your arms.

Each of us is deserving of shelter and security. Each of us is ephemeral and undefinable. More than a number. So let us honor each other’s transience. Let us revel in the glamour and mystery of life’s perfect strangers. Let us treat each other with hospitality. On this bold, beautiful planet, let us be so gentle and kind that Mother Earth looks down, as we are ascending into heaven or whatever exists next and says, “Thank you, come again. I hope you enjoyed your stay.”