This is the hardest page to write, because this wasn’t just some fun, quirky hotel where every room was themed after an author—Mark Twain, Shakespeare, Gertrude Stein, Dr. Seuss, and so on. It stood for something far greater: the most beautiful, romantic side of humanity.
And it was sacrificed on the altar of greed and ego.
Whist I was living my own version of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer—homeless, writing out of my car—I was also creating this website, building the writing project contest, and shaping The 23 & We. During that time, I became deeply entangled in the community’s desperation to preserve this place, which had become such an essential piece of people’s peace of mind.
To keep this short—since I’ll dive much deeper in A Blog Cut Into Slices—here’s the quick punch to the gut.
Most nights, I’d come in off the clock for an hour or two just to chat with the co-workers on the shift before mine. We were close—every one of the ladies and I—and those little gatherings were a heartwarming way to spill the tea.
It also gave me the chance to spend even more time in the hotel as the final guests arrived, or returned from their evening adventures. Meeting so many incredibly like-minded, intelligent people—it was like a dopamine drip every single time.
Okay, I can already feel myself starting to ramble on and tear up. Ahhhhh! It’s hard to keep this part short!
At the time of my hiring as a Knight auditor, guests had just learned that the beloved hotel was sold to a regional bed-and-breakfast chain on the coast. Their worries, fears, and questions about losing such a place poured out to me in earnest.
While visiting in the hours before my shift, I’d pull up a chair on the other side of the desk, blending in like just another guest chatting with the wonderful staff. But by 10:00 PM, there I was behind the desk, manning the haunted hotel alone and with my own stories to share. That’s when the magic deepened even further into my core.
In between telling my own stories, I listened—really listened—as they shared their most wonderful, heartfelt memories of staying at the Sylvia Beach Hotel and what it meant to them.
As the date for the hotel’s “renovations” drew closer, the phone calls increased too—sometimes in the middle of the night, from England or the Netherlands, from people who had been coming here for decades. (National Geographic Traveler had once featured the hotel, sharing its charm with the world.) Each call brought more tears, more stories, and more grief.
The community’s efforts ran so deep that a group of millionaires even tried to buy the hotel out from VIP Hospitality before the so-called “renovations” could began. Passionate patrons met with executives—or anyone from the company who would listen—pleading with them to preserve the hotel’s vision. A place without Wi-Fi or TVs. A sanctuary where the noise of the world fell away, and the quiet left space for books, conversation, and imagination to breathe the salty ocean air.
My job, beyond simply looking after the hotel at night, became listening and empathizing with the many people who felt like they were losing a piece of their soul.
All that being said, I always knew this day would come. The day I’d circle back and finish what I started with A Man Cut Into Slices.
Times are changing in our lives. And yes, times have always been changing — but not like this.
I see everything in A Man Cut Into Slices as my version of art. The Sylvia Beach Hotel was my canvas, and every poem or story—like a brushstroke.
One request I have for you, dear reader: share this project with a few people you know who belong in this audience — artists who have their imaginations tickled by quills made from birds that fly together.
Thank you
When Your Thoughts Start Thinking Back
The Sylvia Beach Hotel’s Legendary Journals: Memories Locked In A Cage
A Portal To A Blog Cut Into Slices—The Story Of A Story Being Written
The 23 & We Project
The Ghosts Of Sylvia Beach Hotel
A Collection Of Digital Preservation