The name came about thusly: time was, if you stayed at my mother’s house, accommodations were lavish. Near-gourmet meals, freshly-laundered linens, flowers on the bedside table. Her standards of hospitality were high; but inflexible. I, born to less affluent times, but no less hospitable, would hand you a bowl of whatever was going in the kitchen; a clean towel; and a blanket for the couch, if no bed were available. My friend Joe, observing the phenomenon, dubbed my household “the Zeitgeist Hotel”; and so it remains to this day.
I have another friend who is channelling a fantasy novel in which my house and I appear (by name). It figures as a kind of halfway house for extra-terrestrial beings–like an immigrant welcome centre…she’s not far wrong.
I feel outed…but y’all are welcome. In the Zeitgeist Hotel.