Like many of us, in my younger years I didn’t care as much about where I’d be staying in a certain city compared to what I’d be doing. The hotel, or occasional friend’s pad, was of less concern to a twentysomething person than who I might be hooking up with later that night. To that end, I’ve stayed in some highly questionable establishments over the years. A dodgy room in Miami with Chris made me realize that not all gay hotels came with taste. A mosquito-infested summer room in Chelsea found me placing an industrial-strength fan on my face for the night in the hopes of eluding the flying needles. Another room in the famed Chelsea Hotel was already occupied by an enormous roach which prompted me to insists one something better. (I was not exactly accommodated.) This doesn’t even touch on the apartments of friends – let’s just say that I woke up with a contact high in one particular pot-growing compound in San Francisco.
These days, priorities have rightfully shifted, and it’s now the hotel that makes or breaks a stay away from home. I’m too old and comfort-concerned to put up with nonsense that once barely bothered me. Now I demand a little more, and Andy certainly enjoys a proper bed now that his back is so messed up. To that end, we are both Kimpton Rewards members, as it is one company that consistently provides personal service and unique boutique hotels in every city we’ve ever frequented. Coming up is a stay at the Muse in New York. I’ve been there before and it was wonderful, but this will mark Andy’s first time – and one never forgets their first time at a Kimpton property.
