Citizen Lily, or I Drank the Kool-Aid

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?


Or controlling the TV, mood lights, curtains, and blackout shades with this iPad?


Neither could I. 

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