Hootch Juice in Montreal

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Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Toxed in Montreal
You know when you’re rampaging through Old Montreal totally toxed on organic substances and corked on a bottle of hootch juice, and you suddenly realize that this is the best time you have ever had, and that you are so glad that Quebec is a part of Canada?

And you rage around yelling “what is that?” at every piece of architecture that you cannot believe actually exists in Canada—Safdie’s cube-living space Habitat, some Thunderdome made of spun sugar. And then you rest, taking time-outs in a park right behind a glowing white Russian Communist Castle?

Coco Channel and Sugar Water
And then your friend starts getting low blood sugar and begins to whine incredibly hootch statements like, “I want to go back to the hotel. I need Perrier. I want my Prada shrug”.

And you realize that life is great and you have an amazing byatch-of-a-friend...because when she turns into a bitch she is fabulous: she is a Coco Channel upstart and you’re right into just loving her performance, her arms waving around in an amazing Issey Miyake-like pattern of delight.

And then, you suddenly know that there is no way you are going back to the hipster hotel you’re staying in (for one glorious night) in this state... Actually, to qualify it for yourself, you rephrase that thought: there is no way you are going through any hotel lobby, especially the beautiful lobby at Montreal’s Hotel W, in this state.

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Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Cute Drones in Hipster Purgatory
Because you remember that when you left the grandeur of your hotel room three hours ago the cute boys standing around the lobby supposedly “working” (more like just standing around lookin’ good) were setting up velvet ropes around the staircase leading up to the two, sliding-glass, entranceway doors.

And then you have a horrible throught: W’s club entrance is just outside the hall by the elevator that leads up to the safe haven that is your amazing hotel room. And you'll be returning to that hall just as everyone is arriving at the club. And then you know: there is no way this byatch here is going to deal with that hipster purgatory.

Lobby Issues and Camel Guilt
And so you reel around, take a swig of the hootch juice roadie, and smoothly say, “Look Coco, I have no problem going back to our hotel room, but I’m currently having issues with hotel lobbies”…

And then she looks at you, her sea foam-rimmed eyes narrowing just slightly. And purring like a famished cheetah, she hustles these words: “I do everything for you. Everything. Who organized this trip? Who can go without water like a camel, so that you can drink whenever you’re thirsty? I do everything for you.”

You then think to yourself: this is the most enjoyable argument you have ever had. And you jump in on this cougar action like a rich bitch at an H&M sale.

“Fine Coco… but if we go back to the hotel, we’re not leaving again. I’m having ‘issues with hotel lobbies’. I will only go through lobby hell once. I’m having issues with hotel lobbies.”

But her Roman jaw is set.

And so you happily give in to her desire to return because you remember that the Miu Miu purse that she is currently sporting—the purse that she had, earlier on in the evening, confidently set on the check-in desk like she owned the W—had got you the upgrade to the super-deluxe room you were currently returning to. So you contentedly give in to her need for Perrier and a foot bath in the Jacuzzi-sized tub.

Paris is a Buring Hotel Lobby Purgatory
And so you head back. But as you approach the W hotel, and its much-feared and Wallpaper-esque hotel lobby, you see, off in the distance, a line-up of French hipsters blocking your easy, smooth and classy re-entry to your hotel room. And you decide: “Fuck it. I’m a byatch, and I can do this lobby entrance like Paris Hilton on her best sleazy night”.

But as you approach the hell that is your hotel entrance, Coco Channel starts having second thoughts and veers away from the velvet ropes.

And you think to yourself: “there is no fucking way that you are not going through these ropes with me. I got over my issues with hotel lobbies. Deal byatch.” And so you grab the collar of her draped, off-the-shoulder shirt, and yank her through the shiny, silk-clad throngs. And you tell yourself to repeat this Hilton-esqe mantra: “I am staying in this hotel. They are merely drinking in it. I am the fabulous bitch here. They are merely low brow hipsters”.

Velvet Skip Rope
Fortunately the cute-boys-just-standing-around-who-are-supposedly-working part the velvet ropes (as cute boys have been trained to do, act or non). And as you elegantly glide—make that careen—through the first sliding glass doors, you are suddenly scrunched in their automatic-ness. But, you grit your teeth. You will not fail on this hootch mission. And again, a cute work boy comes to your rescue and “escorts” you and Coco through the second doors. And you think, “So this is what it feels to be Paris… ghetto”.

Stay tuned for Part II: Violet and Coco’s Night In…