A Break & Enter for John Lennon
On April 1, 2023 (rejecting the foolery of that day for something very important) I slipped out of my hotel to navigate the chilly streets of Montreal with a single destination in mind: The Hotel Queen Elizabeth.
In 1969, John Lennon and Yoko Ono staged a bed-in at the luxury hotel—their form of a peaceful protest against the Vietnam war. Because (obviously) the message of “Stay in Bed!” and “Grow Your Hair!” was a recipe for change.
No matter. In my eyes, the actions of this eccentric couple provide great entertainment, unending motivation to follow my heart, and true affirmation that being a weirdo doesn’t make people love you less.
And oh, how I do love John Lennon!
I wish I remembered the moment I discovered the Beatles, and though I was yet to turn 1 year old when John was gunned down in New York City, I feel like he’s been nestled in my heart for my entire life. While the other girls fussed over 98 Degrees and Backstreet Boys I wrote things like “Elvis is dead but John Lennon lives forever” on my math binder.
It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the other Beatles, I was just always John’s girl. And though I hold no ill will or dark feelings towards Yoko, I also know John wrote “Woman” for me and no one can tell me differently.
When my husband won an entry into the 2023 CPA Montreal Invitational with his billiards team (including a complimentary room at Le Centre Sheraton Montreal) there wasn’t a question: of course I was going with him.
I don’t give a lick about pool. I love that my husband loves it and I love that he doesn’t care that I don’t. I had three incredible evenings to explore the Montreal nightlife with him (GLORY!) and two full days to explore the city alone (GLORY GLORY!) while he competed against pool players from all over North America.
I had two main focuses for my time.
Go to as many Leonard Cohen haunts as possible (and I did!)
See the Lennon and Yoko memorial display at the Queen Elizabeth
Day one was Cohen focused. I went to his apartment, his favourite coffee place, his bagel shop of choice; I walked the Jewish Quarter and felt his presence in the crisp air and the friendly faces.
Day two. Lennon time.
The Sheraton was just down the street from the Elizabeth, separated by some traffic lights and the beautiful Mary Queen of the World Cathedral (which I also toured).
Nice hotels like these have extra security measures so that vagrants off the street (read: me) can’t wander around the guest rooms. You can get into the lobby, but that’s where it ends. In order to access the elevator, you need a key card, and I (of course) did not have such a device. So, I did what any criminally-minded-up-to-no-good-sneak would do: I waited until I saw a small group standing at the elevator, I joined them and slipped in when those doors dinged open, and then I pretended like one of them had already selected the floor I needed.
Easy peasy?
Not so fast!
I chose a group that wasn’t going higher than the eighth floor and so, terrified of getting stuck in the elevator (I’ve seen Speed!) I exited with them and walked down the hallway with purpose until they had all disappeared into their respective rooms.
The logical next choice was the stairs, but even to access the guest stairwell, I needed a key card. By a strange twist of fate (or the ghost of our dearly departed John) I found a ‘Staff Only’ corridor that was unlocked. Gasp! It led to a wide storage area where housekeeping carts were lined up neatly. There was a bank of service elevators but I was too nervous to push the button in case the doors opened and a staff member caught me out of bounds. At the back of that space, there was a door that led to the service stairwell.
I slipped through and started to climb. The juxtaposition between the beautiful hotel areas meant for guests and this industrial, echoing, ugly stairwell wasn’t lost on me. Someone had definitely been murdered there.
Climbing nine flights of stairs is excruciating. Trying to do it quickly so you don’t get caught (while being weighed down by those two Leonard Cohen bagels you couldn’t help but eat for breakfast) is a free ticket to an untimely demise. By floor 14 I was seeing stars and I had to sit—right there in the dirt and residue of countless staff who probably didn’t eat two bagels and could do this climb every day - twice!
I can’t tell you how long I sat there trying to slow my heart rate and catch my breath, but it’s embarrassing. When I heard a door open a few floors below me, I had to wrench myself up by holding the railing with both hands and start climbing again. Much slower this time, praying whoever had entered the stairwell was only climbing one or two floors.
“Dear John Lennon, please protect me in this the hour of my need. Push air into my lungs and energy into my legs and let me see the place where you stayed before I join you on that celestial shore. Amen.”
Sweaty, haggard, exhausted (but already thinking about the bagel I was going to eat when I survived this ordeal—I’d bought half a dozen the day before) I sat in a hallway chair to, once again, calm my heart down. Not a single soul walked by. (Thanks to John, my guardian angel.)
Finally returned to a more human state of being, I wandered the halls in search of John’s room. 1742. Suite John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Sweet John Lennon.
The hallway leading to the double doors was wrapped in a black and white mural depicting John and Yoko, ‘Hair Peace Bed Peace’ signs, and reporters capturing interviews with the couple. The wall holding the doors themselves was covered in exaggerated lettering that said, “Give peace a chance.”
“I made it,” I said to John.
“Woman, I never doubted you,” he said.
Was it worth almost passing out, an illegal visitor in a staff stairwell? Yes. Yes it was.
Would I do it again? Yes. But with less bagels and maybe by sweet-talking someone in the elevator to push floor 17 for me.
Independence is one of my character strengths. And one of my flaws. Having the confidence to go it alone has allowed me to forge ahead in my business, but I know there are areas that, had I reached out to an expert for support, my stumbling might have given way to a smoother journey. That’s not to say I regret any of the steps that have brought me where I am today, I’m just learning that reaching out for help is a skill in and of itself and I’m slowly flexing those muscles, seeing myself go from wheezing in a stairwell to gaining access to the elevator.
Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness, and sure, I may have got an unexpected cardio workout that day, but I probably would have had more fun if I politely asked someone in the elevator help me get where I wanted to go. The 17th floor didn’t change. I would have still seen the murals and stood where John once stood, but I would have done it without the threat of a heart attack.
So, where are you? Have you been exploring the wild west of the publishing industry and find yourself trying to catch your breath in the murder-stairwell? I’ve got the key card to that elevator—at least to the floor I’ve carved out for myself—and I’d be happy to offer you a lift.
If you’re ready to ask for a little help getting your manuscript from the 14th landing to the 17th floor, book a chat and let’s talk it out. Just imagine. If we come together, I can hold your hand without any mind games as we explore the idea of turning you into a paperback writer.
