Before I depart into the mountain wilderness, I want to briefly make a confession: I fell for a marketing ploy.
Faced with a 22-hour layover in Paris, and burdened with a 30 pounds of luggage and a decidedly unParisienne wardrobe, I decided to forgo a jaunt in the City of Lights for the comfort of a bed before two weeks of tent. I stayed in the well-priced Citizen M hotel, an establishment I can only assume is Big Hotel’s response to AirBnB. Large rooms with amenities are replaced by sleek pod-like chambers, a common room with a 360-degree bar, Pop Art decor, and cheeky comments on everything from shampoo (a story that had something like: “For people who wake with the morning light, or those who are jetlagged, this elixir will beget you wings and a halo”) to the Do Not Disturb sign (“Naked people are inside”). There was a pen (“Steal this pen and write great postcards”) and a notebooks (“Writing is the new fucking”, or something similar).
You become a Citizen when you book, and all email correspondence is addressed the Citizen Your Name. This is very inclusive, very culty, and very not something I would usually like. But could you resist walking into your temporary white, black, and red home, Citizen Reader, and being greeted with this image?