Athen Sdrpc

My favorite weekend getaway on the Oregon coast, the Sylvia Beach Hotel, is laced through and through with sense of place and boudoir sweet. For an avid reader, this literary hotel (complete with the Tables of Content dining room) doubles as a spa for the soul. Every room is named after an author and decorated in the theme of his or her work. You can spend your stay in the ambient femininity of the Emily Dickinson Room, in the virile humor of the Mark Twain Room, in the fin-studded primary colors of the Doctor Seuss Room (goldfish in a bowl, bedside), or in the “rose is a rose” elegance of the Gertrude Stein Room.
It is to this creative establishment that I’ve come alone when fighting the blues or when wanting to renew my sense of the poetic against practical demands. After becoming single again, I received inspiration from the Sylvia Beach Hotel to reinvent my bedroom. The irony is that in its first “life,” my bedroom was the garage of our small house. This fact makes me marvel because the allegory seems too perfect: a boudoir (a word from the French that means “to pout”) that was once a garage and then a bedroom for a marriage that was not what it seemed. Reincarnating the room a third time into a single-again honeymoon haven is proof that any place so poisoned can, indeed, become sweet again. For romance has little to do with a man.