“The Chelsea can boast of Warhol and Dylan. What have we got? A destitute actor and a stoned guitarist who can barely manage two tunes.”

Earl Jackson, the beleaguered manager of this weary establishment, has no shortage of grievances. The Eastside Hotel—a refuge for artists, musicians, mystics, and wandering souls—offers him ample cause for vexation.

Nestled on the fringes of Paradise, the hotel has catered to its peculiar clientele since 1928. Inaugurated just a year before the Wall Street Crash, it has never quite regained its footing. Within its ageing walls resides a motley cast of characters, each with a story to tell.

Among them is Lady, the enigmatic occupant of Room 94, unseen by another soul in a decade. Below her lives Ron, the accidental owner—an old relic of the Summer of Love in ’69—who arrived too stoned to realise the festivities were unfolding in California. Across the hall is Bluebird, the hotel’s newest resident, a fugitive from a past that looms ever closer.

These wayward souls find solace under the watchful eye of Birdy, the hotel’s matriarch, whose nourishing soups and quiet counsel sustain more than one weary lodger. As Jackson wryly observes, “Amidst all this, we somehow manage to accommodate the occasional paying guest.”

The Eastside Hotel remains a bastion of creative chaos and furtive histories, a testament to the enduring spirit of those who call it home.