This essay defies easy description. It is about love. It is about perseverance. It is also about many cruelties—the cruelty of poverty, of terminal illness, of grief, of generational trauma:
What you know of your mother’s childhood can be summarized in a single story that is about not her childhood but her father’s:
There once lived a little boy, the son of impoverished tenant farmers. One day, he was invited to the village fair by the child of his richer neighbor. The neighbor gave the boy a few coins to spend at the fair. Ecstatic, he bought himself the first toy of his life, a wooden pencil, which he hung proudly around his neck the whole day. When he returned home, his parents beat him within an inch of his life. Those coins could have bought rice and grains! Enough to feed the family for a week!
This was the only story your grandfather told your mother of his childhood, and the first time she told it to you, you recognized the echo of every hero tale you were taught as a child. A Communist cadre till the end, your grandfather had run away at age sixteen to join the Party, which had given him the first full belly he had known. Just as important, the Party had taught him how to read, inspired the avidity with which he had marked up Mao’s Little Red Book: his cramped, inky annotations marching up and down the page like so many ants trooping through mountains.
The second time your mother told you the story, you were ten or eleven and she didn’t have to tell it at all. The two of you were at Staples, shopping for school supplies. “back-to-school sale,” the posters all over the store screamed. Four notebooks, four mechanical pencils, your mother had stipulated, but you wanted more. You always wanted more. When you persisted, she had only to look at you and utter the words “You have more than anyone” for you to know exactly whom she was referring to.
The story was growing inside you, just as it had grown in your mother: a cactus whose spines pierced their way through your thoughts.
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The Rim Fire in Tuolumne County, Florida, ate over 250,000 acres and cost nearly $130 million to put out. One man confessed to starting it—accidentally—but the case against him fell through. What really happened back in 2013? For Rolling Stone, Joseph Bien-Kahn attempts to find the truth.
It’s admirable for Skalski to be so unbothered by the criticism. Still, I press on. She, more than anyone, embodies the feds to the locals of Tuolumne County. Why, in her view, had the area been so ready to forgive the man rescued from the scene of the crime? “I think what people were surprised at was that it was a local person. Not even so much that it was a hunter, but that it was a local person,” she says. “We all knew how dry it was out there, so they’re like, ‘Why would you do that?’ I don’t know — that could’ve been a disappointment to find out it was somebody local as opposed to somebody coming from a city out there.”
Of all the explanations, Skalski’s rings most true. We say we tell stories to understand the world, but the ones we choose to believe often fit into our existing understanding of it. A local kid should’ve known better than to start a fire on the hot, dry afternoon of Aug. 17, 2013. A terrible accident with untold costs was too simple an explanation. And so, many other stories began to be told.
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With today’s news of Cormac McCarthy’s death at age 89, American literature has lost another giant. As with so many giants, McCarthy inspired a journalistic cottage industry of sorts; his stylistic and creative influence touched countless other writers, many of whom felt moved to acknowledge that influence in their own writing. What follows is a quintet of such pieces that Longreads editors have read and enjoyed over the years.
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Robert Draper | Texas Monthly | July 1992 | 2,116 words
Cormac McCarthy showed up in El Paso around January 1976, his move from Knoxville unannounced and his arrival completely unnoticed. He was a 43-year-old writer of three out-of-print novels, a man twice divorced, living exclusively off of literary fellowships. He began to be seen in pool halls and bowling alleys on the south side of town, as well as in various Mexican restaurants, always with some esoteric book under his arm. The friends he slowly accumulated had no idea who Cormac McCarthy was in literary terms. They knew him as a short, handsome man who wore simple clothes, who seemed to live comfortably with little income, and who enjoyed talking about almost any imaginable topic—except, as it happens, contemporary literature. He did allow as to how El Paso was a proper setting to research his latest project: the spectacular Blood Meridian, perhaps the most unyieldingly savage vision of the Old West ever committed to print, in which cowboys and Indians scalp each other and their own kind without a moment’s hesitation or remorse. But something else about El Paso appealed to McCarthy. It was, as he told a friend, “one of the last real cities left in America,” with its own unvanquished eccentricities and the added feature of geographical remoteness. A man could move freely in El Paso. He could get lost there.
David Kushner | Rolling Stone | December 1, 2007 | 4,196 words
But among this rarefied gathering of leading intellects, none is more respected than the spry old cowboy dipping his tortillas in beans at the lunch table. Dressed in a crisp blue shirt and jeans, he sits comfortably with his weathered boots crossed and listens intently as a theoretical biologist who has flown in from Berlin discusses something called evolutionary economics – the relationship between animal behavior and marketlike forces. This is quintessential Santa Fe stuff, examining one phenomenon (biology) in the light and lexicon of another (economics).
The discussion soon turns to the topic of suicide. As a slide of a West African tribe flickers on the biologist’s computer screen, the researchers dig into the idea that suicide attempts can be evaluated as a kind of expression of market forces – a threat to remove oneself as a source of benefits to others. The neuroscientist in the corner raises her hand and poses a question to the group: “Does anyone know another animal besides humans who commit suicide?”
Brains churn. Air conditioning whirs. For once, though, the scientists are stumped.
Then the cowboy chimes in, as he often does, with the answer.
Tom Chiarella | Esquire | June 28, 2009 | 5,900 words
Cormac McCarthy fathered a son as an old man, and this story is an ode to a ticking clock, to the diminishment of time, to last chances. Last chance to parent. Last chance to warn, to train, to prepare. The father fights to teach. And the father teaches the boy to fight. In the movie’s first teaching moment, the father shows his son where to shoot himself in the head should it come to that. With the gun loaded. It is perhaps the movie’s only lurid turn, a moment that, like almost every moment in the movie, appears in the book as well. By the time it occurs, it is understood to be a gesture of necessity. There they are, citizens of a kind of now, bad teeth and all, pallid, filthy, damp to the bone, at their end, and whether you’ve read the book or not, the sight of it makes you seize.
Jim White | Radio Silence | June 12, 2012 | 4,987 words
In my left coat pocket is a dog-eared copy of Cormac McCarthy’s novel Suttree, which happens to be set here in Knoxville way back in the ’50s. I’m not much of a planner, so to some extent or another (depending on your take on the mechanics of serendipity) it’s sheer coincidence that it ended up in my suitcase as I packed for this tour. Likewise I’m no great bibliophile, certainly not one of those types who might find it exhilarating to locate and use, say, the exact toilet that Jack Kerouac took a shit in while writing On the Road. That said, I’m happy it ended up with me here in Knoxville, as the city itself is practically a character in the novel. Gay and Central Streets, where Walter’s barbershop is, are mentioned frequently, so it’s interesting to be in the physical locale where the action takes place. I’m about halfway through Suttree this time around. I’ve read it front to back many times, usually when events in my life have gone spiraling out of control and that black cloud of depression that’s dogged me off and on for much of my adult years descends.
Noah Gallagher Shannon | Oxford American | September 5, 2017 | 6,836 words
If it’s not so uncommon for a writer to traverse literary landscapes, McCarthy does seem unique in being claimed by the native intelligentsia of two separate regions. In the late sixties, Guy Davenport wrote that in McCarthy, Appalachia “has found a new storyteller to depict the darkness of its heart and its futile defiance of its luck.” So too in the West, where he is considered the reviver of an aesthetic long cheapened. A poll taken a few years back by High Country News named the Border Trilogy, which comprises All the Pretty Horses and its sequels, asamong readers’ favorite books about their home, alongside canonical texts by Lewis and Clark and Wallace Stegner.
All this critical sorting and swerving tells us a few things about McCarthy: that no one quite fathoms him enough to name his place in the culture; and that his absence has shifted the responsibility of this naming over to his obsessives, many of whom have become fixated on figuring out the best method to secure his legacy, a task which, the closer you get to it, feels less and less like scholarship and more like a Rorschach test. To many, he has become a ghost, a figment of study—which is strange since, of course, he’s alive, and writing. His existence today, at eighty-four years old, feels already posthumous.
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Amanda Chemeche shares her memories of when the Chelsea Hotel was “a home to artists and outsiders alike who lived, tried, and beautifully failed.” Her reminisces are almost dreamlike, yet capture the essence of a special time in this hotel’s history.
There used to be a bookcase, half obscured by a large tropical plant, in the lobby. Looking at it evokes a haptic experience for me. On each shelf is a table setting: one all in blue, another in red, and so on. I remember my curious, child fingers nudging the objects in confusion, mistaking them for a glued-down Fisher-Price tea set. My hands came away coated with tacky dust and grime.
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In his own words, Hashim Mohammed, 26, tells the story of his escape from the Uyghur region of China via a Thai detention center. His goal was to navigate “the smugglers’ way” through Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, and Malaysia, to be able to fly to freedom in Turkey. In China, Uyghur faithful have been persecuted for displays of devotion to Islam, which the Chinese government considers a threat.
The authorities bulldozed mosques, saw any expression of religion as extremist and confiscated Qurans. By 2018, as many as one million Uyghurs had been sent to so-called “re-education” camps. Across the region, an extensive high-tech system of surveillance was rolled out to monitor every movement of the Uyghur population. This remains the case to this day, with the Chinese police in Urumqi, the capital of Xinjiang, reportedly requiring residents to download a mobile app which enables them to monitor phones.
It started back in the city of Urumqi in Xinjiang, 10 years ago now. I was 16 years old and had recently begun boxing at my local gym. In the evenings, I started to spend some time reciting and reading the Quran. The local Chinese authorities were beginning their mass crackdown on Uyghurs in the name of combating terrorist activity. Any display of religious devotion was deemed suspicious.
The local police considered my boxing gym to be a sinister and dangerous place. They kept asking us what we were training for. They thought we were planning something. They started arresting some of the students and coaches at the gym. Police visited my house and went through all my possessions. They couldn’t find anything.
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Last night the Denver Nuggets secured their first NBA Championship in team history. Though the group made it clear that this is the best team in the league, nobody doubts that the effort was led by the unlikeliest of superstars: Nikola Jokic.
Jokic’s eye-popping statistical superlatives have come fast and furious in the last few years, but ESPN’s Ramona Shelburne does the much tougher work of getting to the core of his makeup. How did he go from being a longshot in an NBA no-man’s land to undisputed MVP on a championship team? In this profile, Shelburne talks to those around the Serbian big man—reporters know that Jokic won’t talk about himself—to uncover the genesis and story of how he molded his body to fulfill a lifelong dream for not only himself, but also the team, coaches, and city around him.
Focus on the work, not what it means to be an MVP.
Jokic thought about it for a little bit before answering.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
After every game, no matter how many minutes he played, they’d lift weights. He would change his diet, cutting out as many indulgences as possible, which meant no soda, no beer, no snacks while he played video games.
An exception was made for orange juice and the occasional bite of his mother’s cooking, when she visited from Serbia. But just a bite. “I actually told him to enjoy his mom’s food after games,” Eichenberger says. “Like, come on, you can’t not eat your mother’s cooking.”
“But once he gets something in his head,” Eichenberger adds, “that’s how it’s going to be.”
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Adam Reiner | Longreads | June 13, 2023 | 4,992 words (17 minutes)
The hospital room is full of strangers. I do my best not to look worried and take a deep breath, inhaling the antiseptic odor that permeates the air—a sterile cologne of surgical masks, latex gloves, and industrial-grade cleaning solvents. Worry is the enemy of hope, and cancer spreads faster in the crevices where hope slips through.
My uncle Robert is propped upright in the hospital bed in the center of the room, leaning limply to one side like a resting marionette, awake, but looking like he hasn’t slept in days. Malignant tumors are blooming along his spine like mushrooms on a log, which makes lying on his back incredibly painful.
A square-shaped cake studded with plump, bright strawberries rests atop a tray stand at the foot of the bed. The generous layer of vanilla frosting reflects the fluorescent light above like a moonlit snowdrift. The longer I stare at it, the more the cake’s soft edges blend into the stark whiteness of the hospital walls. A tangle of shiny helium balloons sways on the nightstand.
It’s my uncle’s birthday. We’re all standing in a semicircle around him wearing adhesive identification tags from security. It feels awkward, like a company mixer. One of the strangers passes me a Styrofoam cup filled with tart sparkling cider. I wish there was alcohol in it.
A plush doll of Pope Francis lies on the blanket next to my uncle. The pontiff had recently traveled through Philadelphia—where the hospital is located—only the second papal visit in the city’s history. Robert was too weak to attend the procession but had wanted to go, a surprise given he wasn’t a particularly religious person, nor a Catholic. The souvenir was meant as a joke, but the doll never wandered from his bedside.
Robert’s cancer is rare, a soft tissue sarcoma that formed on the crown of his left ankle three years earlier. Doctors amputated his leg from the thigh down to stem the tide. He’d been in remission for months, but now the cancer is everywhere. Over the summer, he consulted sarcoma specialists at the Abramson Cancer Center, and after weeks of commuting from New York City for radiation treatment, he and my aunt Terri took refuge at the nearby Kimpton Hotel Monaco.
The strangers in the hospital with us are hotel employees. They brought the cake and all the party favors. Kayla, the hotel’s front office director, flashes a cherubic smile. She has soft, bronze skin and round cheeks that dimple slightly like those of a mischievous toddler. Her voice is raspy with the deep timbre of a jazz singer. “Don’t worry, we take very good care of your uncle whenever he’s down in Philly,” Kayla says, winking at Robert. Terri gently adjusts the pillows behind Robert’s back, maneuvering his frail body into a more comfortable position. He winces a little then goes back to reading the pile of birthday cards that are strewn about the bed.
I introduce myself to Roshid, the portly and affable concierge, and the bellman, Maurice, who they affectionately call Coach. Roshid puts his arm around Robert and sings a few bars of one of his favorite pick-me-up songs, “Games People Play” by The Spinners:
Can’t get no rest
Don’t know how I work all day
When will I learn?
Memories get in the way
Roshid presents Robert with a special mixtape of his favorite soul and jazz music, along with a custom-printed photo book. Coach pulls a leather football out of his long black trench coat, signed by all the members of the bell staff. “I doubt I’d be much of a force on the gridiron in my current condition,” Robert says, catching the shovel pass from Coach and looking down at his missing appendage. “Definitely not the kicker.”
The strangers in the hospital with us are hotel employees. They brought the cake and all the party favors.
Before his illness, Robert had a full head of black curly hair, wound in tight, springy coils like a poodle. He’d lost all of it during chemo, but it had begun to grow back in sporadic, directionless threads like matted shag carpet. His face was gaunt and his cheeks sunken, but his smile still had the same paternal warmth.
When I was a kid, my uncle’s visits were like holidays. My sisters and I would climb up on the green velvet couch by the bay window in the living room overlooking the driveway. As soon as we’d see him pull up, we’d run outside and bum-rush the car before he could turn the engine off. In the mornings, we’d barge into the guest room where he slept and violently wake him up by jumping all over his bed. He didn’t visit often, so we savored every moment. Seeing him lying there in the hospital, I felt the urge to vault onto his bed again, wishing I could somehow wake him up from this nightmare.
Kayla had arranged for the chef of the hotel’s restaurant to prepare a strip steak, one of Robert’s favorite items on the dinner menu. He devours it out of a cardboard takeout container while Kayla neatly divides the birthday cake into even slices. After an hour or so, we share warm hugs and say our goodbyes. Although the thought lingered in the back of all our minds that day, none of us knew that it would be my uncle’s last birthday.
The Hotel Monaco opened in 2012, an opulent 268-room hotel located in the historic Lafayette Building overlooking Independence Hall, a stone’s throw from the Liberty Bell in the heart of Philadelphia’s Old City. The 11-story Greek Revival-inspired tower was built in 1907 by the estate of the late financier and philanthropist Stephen Girard and named after his friend Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette.
The facility served as office space for over a century, but after sitting vacant for several years, Kimpton transformed the building into a luxury hotel. The interior is accented with nautical elements—a giant crystal galleon in the entrance, compass-themed carpeting, and porthole-shaped mirrors inside the elevators—an homage to Girard’s seafaring days. The hotel painstakingly restored the façade, preserving many of the building’s original architectural elements, like the towering Corinthian columns that guard the entrance and the stone gargoyles ensconced in the cornices.
Terri and Robert discovered the Monaco after visiting several other hotels in the area on foot, my uncle hobbling on crutches in the scorching late summer heat. With medical bills piling up, the hotel was more extravagant than they could afford, but they needed accommodation for two weeks while he started a new round of radiation. When they arrived, Kayla welcomed them graciously from behind the front desk and checked them into a handicap-accessible room.
The next morning, Terri took the elevator down to the lobby for the complimentary coffee service. The urns had already been dismantled, so she approached the front desk to see if it was possible to have someone deliver coffee to the room. Kayla recognized Terri from check-in and said she would send someone up right away.
As she did with many new guests, Kayla asked why they were visiting Philadelphia. “My husband has cancer,” Terri said. “We came here to start radiation treatment.” After a long silence, they locked eyes. “Is he going to be all right?” Kayla asked. “I don’t know,” Terri said, with a tear in her eye. “I really don’t know.”
Terri explained their commute to consult with specialists at the Abramson Center and the arduous schedule of medical appointments ahead. The travel was taking its toll on Robert. Their room was comfortable, but he hadn’t slept at all the night before because of debilitating back pain.
When they returned later that day, the bed was covered with brand-new pillows. Kayla had been to a local department store and purchased a variety of head and neck pillows with her own money. She had also arranged for room service to deliver a basket of wine and cheeses. A valet left a selection of relaxing bath products for Terri and installed a coffee machine, so they wouldn’t have to worry about missing the morning coffee downstairs again. Personalized notes from staff were scattered around the desk wishing Robert a restful stay and a speedy recovery.
As word of my uncle’s tragic circumstances spread, everyone who worked in the hotel knew their story. The doormen greeted them with hugs every time they returned from doctor’s appointments, always inquiring with genuine concern about my uncle’s health. “Those hugs from the doormen gave me the inspiration to get through the next day,” Terri told me recently.
When they returned in mid-September for another round of radiation, checking back into the hotel felt like a family reunion. Kayla upgraded them to room 601, a much more spacious suite. They only expected to be in town for a few days, but an MRI revealed the source of his excruciating back pain—new tumors on Robert’s thoracic spine—forcing them to extend their stay.
Kayla had been to a local department store and purchased a variety of head and neck pillows with her own money.
Roshid, the concierge, caught wind that they were running out of clean clothes and snuck a pair of my uncle’s pants out of his closet to check his size. He bought three extra pairs of khakis from a nearby Old Navy store—again with his own money—and had the pants hemmed and altered to remove the left leg to suit Robert’s amputation. Before they returned to the hotel, and without a word to anyone, Roshid hung the altered pants in his closet.
“At that point, I didn’t even see him as a hotel guest anymore. I saw him as my friend, somebody who needed help,” Roshid says of my uncle. “It humbled me to know that someone like him was walking the earth. He was a genuinely good man.” Robert and Terri returned to the room later that day, flabbergasted to find the closet filled with the new tailored pants.
In late October, after the staff threw Robert’s hospital birthday party, Terri asked to meet with James, the hotel’s general manager. James is a man of very few words, but he chooses them carefully. As a point of pride, he prefers to operate in the background, mindful not to upstage his team. Terri was concerned that she wasn’t doing enough to show the staff appreciation. She hoped that James might have some insight into how she could reciprocate their generosity. Should she be tipping them more? James listened intently, nodding along without answering until Terri finished speaking.
“How do you like your room?” James asked with a sheepish smile. “I love it,” Terri said. “It’s bigger than our apartment in New York City.” It wasn’t true, but she wanted James to know how much she appreciated being upgraded to a larger suite. As Robert’s condition deteriorated, Terri hadn’t been able to teach as many yoga classes, so financing their trips to Philadelphia was becoming burdensome.
“It’s yours for as long as you need it,” James said. The next day, he notified Kayla that the hotel would stop billing room 601, effective immediately. The Monaco would also extend heavily discounted room rates to family members so that Robert would be surrounded by loved ones whenever support was needed.
Kayla couldn’t wait to share the news with Terri. “I started crying,” Kayla says. “I called Terri, and we both started crying.”
I questioned James about his decision over the phone recently, wondering if it caused any controversy. “The financial piece didn’t matter anymore, so why should they have to worry about it?” he said, not wasting any words. “We decided to just make that go away.” From that day on, Robert and Terri never received another bill from the Monaco. The hotel established a standing reservation for room 601 under their name to ensure that the suite would be available to them at a moment’s notice.
The joy of staying in a hotel lies in absolving yourself of the responsibility for maintaining order and cleanliness. Every time you return to your room, your messes are untangled by an invisible hand like sorcery. Linens are always fresh. Hand soap and tiny shampoo bottles regenerate like magic.
All humans are born with a deep, primal anxiety about self-care that begins the moment we’re jettisoned from the womb and detached from the umbilical cord. The world’s finest hotels quell these anxieties effortlessly. They dote on us like devoted mothers, with staff that anticipates our needs and makes everyone feel at home.
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Truly great service demands profound selflessness and integrity. That isn’t teachable. Money affords luxury, but even the most obsequious service rarely makes guests feel seen. That’s because transcendent hospitality is a more profound connection, earned through mutual respect and an equitable exchange of sacrifice for appreciation.
The etymology of the word hospitality is the Latin hospitalitas—or the English hospital. Checking into a hospital is, obviously, far less luxurious than an overnight stay in a five-star hotel, but it can be 10 times more expensive. According to a 2022 report by The Commonwealth Fund—which conducts independent research on health policy—the United States spends more than twice as much on medical care compared with 38 other high-income nations. Meanwhile, we boast the worst outcomes, the highest rate of citizens with multiple chronic diseases, and the greatest likelihood of dying prematurely from avoidable causes.
The prohibitive cost of health care leads Americans to routinely neglect preventative care and leave grave illnesses untreated. Extended hospital stays are one of the most common causes of bankruptcy. Yet, despite the cost, service in medical facilities can be perfunctory, rote at best. The choice between dying in a foreboding hospital room or a luxury hotel suite is an easy one, but, of course, most never have that luxury.
Robert spent Thanksgiving confined to an inpatient rehab facility. A life-threatening surgery to remove spinal tumors—requiring hours on the operating table and multiple blood transfusions—meant weeks of physical therapy to regain his strength.
The day after Thanksgiving, Roshid’s mother sent him with a care package of leftovers: turkey, mac and cheese, and other holiday trimmings. “She told me: ‘Now, you tell that man that we season our food here,’” Roshid says, adding, “Unless he was a good liar, he tore that food up.”
Robert and Terri. Image courtesy of Adam ReinerRobert practicing yoga after his amputation. Courtesy of Adam Reiner.Roshid and Robert in the hotel lobby. Courtesy of Adam Reiner
By December, their trips to Philadelphia grew longer. Terri and Kayla would often convalesce in the hotel bar over a glass of wine and a cocktail at the end of a long day. Kayla was managing personal trauma of her own, shuttling back and forth to Delaware to care for her ailing father, a military veteran living on a modest pension, who was battling alcoholism and early-onset dementia.
Over drinks one night, Terri confided in Kayla that the oncologist had told Robert there were no treatment options left. Since his cancer was no longer treatable, he needed to be discharged from the hospital. Terri knew that he was too weak to return to New York, that he might not survive the trip back home. She feared that transferring him to hospice care would make his final days intolerable.
Early the next morning, Kayla met with James in his office to discuss a contingency plan—installing a hospital bed inside room 601, so that Robert could spend his final days in the hotel. No one dared say the quiet part out loud: What would happen if he died in the room? But they all knew it was a possibility.
The engineering team removed the king-size mattress and box spring from their bedroom and replaced it with a rented hospital bed. The adjacent common area had a fold-out couch that could accommodate attending medical staff. By the time Robert returned to the hotel, the suite had been transformed into a hospital room. Terri hired nurse practitioners to monitor Robert’s health during off hours when she needed to rest.
No one dared say the quiet part out loud: What would happen if he died in the room? But they all knew it was a possibility.
I took the train down from New York that week to visit him. He’d lost so much weight that his body seemed hollow, like paper-mache. He didn’t speak much, and his gaze was dull. At times, I couldn’t tell if he recognized me. He had a tube threaded through his nostrils to a nearby oxygen tank and was heavily sedated on morphine. Some days I would sit in silence for hours while he slept. If he was awake in the evening, he watched episodes of The Voice. I wondered how a frivolous reality show competition could matter to someone so close to death, but I suppose he welcomed the distraction.
One night, near the end, Robert and Terri watched a movie together in the bedroom. Terri lay down next to him on a rolling cot pushed flush against the edge of his hospital bed. She was happy that there were no machines creating distance between them. They watched in silence, holding hands in the dark. When the movie ended, Robert told her he didn’t want to eat anymore. “It’s okay,” Terri said, “you don’t have to eat.” The next day, his condition severely worsened, and Terri called an ambulance to transfer him back to the hospital.
Kayla remembers seeing their hands clasped through the rails of his hospital bed. “I saw what I felt was the purest form of love that I had ever seen,” she tells me. “Watching them in that moment, it was like nothing else mattered.” She remembered Terri telling her about meeting Robert on the beach. How their love affair was kismet. Fate brought them together, and fate tore them apart. Though their relationship was fleeting, everyone around them could feel the deep spiritual energy they shared and were drawn to it. Robert privately described their relationship as his version of Eat Pray Love. The kind of romance you only read about in novels.
Back in 2010, Robert was healthy and practiced yoga regularly. He had never been to Tulum, never even heard of it, in fact—but a friend suggested it as a tranquil getaway where he could refresh and clear his head during a contentious divorce (that was costing him his sanity and thousands of dollars in lawyers’ fees every month). He’d given up on the idea until, sitting in a coffee shop, he overheard a random couple mention how much they loved the Tulum beaches. It must be a sign, he thought. He booked a last-minute flight, driving miles out of state to renew his expired passport.
Terri adored Tulum. She’d attended yoga teacher training seminars there but never alone, always with work colleagues or friends. Her family typically gathered in Florida for the holidays, but this year they celebrated early. So she decided to spend a week in Tulum by herself to focus on her yoga practice.
They both arrived at the yoga studio at dawn, unsure which room the class was being held in that day. After a brief conversation outside, they went in and set down their belongings next to each other. Robert laid out his mat and assumed a headstand, a pose he’d recently mastered. Terri assumed he was showing off, but she still thought he was cute.
After class, they continued the conversation. Robert was staying at a hotel nearby, and Terri mentioned how much she loved the restaurant there. “Would you like to join me for lunch?” he asked. “Okay, what time?” Terri said. Robert looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “How about noon?” They ate lunch overlooking the beach, chatting the day away as the frothy waves disappeared into the parched sand, exhaling a briny mist into the air. As the tide ebbed, the sun hovered above the shoreline, casting a blanket of warm shimmering topaz across the horizon. They met again for dinner and spent the night walking along the ocean under the stars. Terri likes to say that the lunch never ended.
While they soaked in Tulum’s majesty, a massive snowstorm shut down all the airports along the Eastern seaboard, rendering air travel nearly impossible. When Robert was notified that his flight was canceled, he immediately texted Terri that he needed to stay in Mexico for a few more days. It was late, so she texted back her room number and said she’d leave the light on for him. They spent the remaining days and nights together as though their time had never been interrupted until Robert was finally able to book a return flight home.
When they said farewell, Terri doubted she’d ever see him again. Robert was still anxious about his divorce. But they continued to talk over the phone every day. Robert flew to Cleveland to see Terri just two weeks after leaving Tulum. They traveled back and forth to each others’ cities over the ensuing months before Terri eventually moved to New York to be with Robert permanently. They found an apartment in a quiet neighborhood in Brooklyn, and she found a job teaching yoga in Tribeca.
Robert privately described their relationship as his version of Eat Pray Love. The kind of romance you only read about in novels.
His cancer diagnosis interrupted the fairy tale two years later, but by then their bond had grown stronger. In March 2015, between debilitating rounds of chemo, Robert married Terri in a quiet ceremony inside the office of the city clerk in lower Manhattan. He looked handsome in a black tuxedo with a red rose boutonniere and a backward black Kangol hat concealing his hair loss. Terri looked angelic in a flowing silk wedding gown with a white faux-fur shawl she borrowed from her sister and strappy blue suede heels. For a moment, when they kissed, the cancer disappeared. As sick as he was, it was one of the happiest days of his life.
On Christmas Eve, my cell phone rang. I was on my way to my restaurant job and didn’t even need to look at the screen to know who it was. Terri had warned me that Robert might not make it through the night. The sidewalks were icy, and the coarse salt scattered on the sidewalk was crunching under the soles of my shoes.
“He can hear you,” Terri said softly. “But he can’t answer.” It was hard to concentrate over the rumbling garbage trucks and police sirens wailing in the distance. Terri’s voice wavered a bit, but the cadence of her words was soothing. “I’ll put the phone up to his ear in case there’s anything you’d like to say,” Terri said. I could hear his oxygen tank wheezing in the background.
I cobbled together a few sentences but struggled to find the right words. My uncle was my hero, my rock, my brother. After my mother died when I was 17, he became a surrogate parent. My sisters and I nicknamed him “LG”—short for legal guardian. “I love you, LG,” I told him, covering my other ear to drown out the traffic.
I hung up feeling like I’d failed an audition. I broke down crying on the street corner, wishing I could transport myself to his bedside. There was so much more to say. I never told him how scared I was of losing him because I didn’t want to burden him with my fear. He never wanted to burden me with his either.
Robert passed away quietly in his hospital bed later that evening, leaving behind his wife and 10-year-old daughter from his previous marriage. He was 57 years old.
We often mischaracterize cancer as a test of will—a battle with tangible wins and losses. Before his illness, Robert was much physically fitter than me, even though he was 16 years my senior. Unlike most life-threatening diseases, cancer doesn’t need to exploit a person’s deficient health. It destroys life indiscriminately.
“I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure if you die, the cancer dies at the same time,” the late comedian Norm Macdonald once famously noted. “That’s not a loss, that’s a draw.” Macdonald, who would eventually succumb to cancer himself in 2021, understood how naïve it is to assume that living or dying of cancer is determined by one’s will to live. Cancer’s violence lies in its willingness to leverage its own survival to destroy its host. It isn’t a fair fight.
Millions of people across the world quietly suffer from cancer every day, their families and their doctors befuddled and powerless to cure them. From the sidelines, we goad victims to fight harder. We tell them: You got this! But then we remand them to sterilized, underfunded medical facilities that provide little comfort to the sick, nor empathy for their survivors. My uncle was one of the lucky ones who, in a new city, found community and love from people outside the medical complex—people who had no reason to provide it other than the purity of their hearts.
A month after Robert died, we held a memorial service at a local church in Brooklyn. He’d befriended the church’s pastor, finding comfort in her counsel. On sunny afternoons, he lounged in the gardens of the church’s courtyard for hours.
I never told him how scared I was of losing him because I didn’t want to burden him with my fear. He never wanted to burden me with his either.
Kayla, Roshid, and Sean—one of the hotel’s doormen—took Amtrak up from Philadelphia together to pay their respects. In front of the congregants and mourners, I shared a passage from one of my uncle’s favorite books, Siddhartha by Herman Hesse. In it, a young Siddhartha stands along the banks of a flowing river, contemplating its secrets: “[Siddhartha] saw that the water continually flowed and flowed and yet it was always there; it was always the same and yet every moment it was new.”
Even without the physical presence of our loved ones, I told those assembled, life’s current pulls us forward like a rushing river, always the same and always new. When I finished speaking, I looked over to see Kayla wiping away tears.
Robert asked for his body to be cremated. He wanted his ashes spread in three places: The first set in an urn at a gravesite in a cemetery upstate where his parents were buried; the second in the flower beds around the courtyard of the church where the sun soothed him. Terri promised to return to Tulum to scatter the rest of Robert’s ashes in the infinite, crystal-blue waters of the Caribbean, along the beaches where they first met—his final dying wish.
To show her appreciation for the hotel’s generosity, Terri developed a mindfulness and meditation workshop for the Hotel Monaco staff, that she could offer for free to all who wanted to attend. The following spring, she returned to Philadelphia for the first time since Robert died.
Addressing a room full of Kimpton employees, Terri recounted her emotional story. She spoke about the stages of grief. How suffering begins as a gaping wound. “According to Rumi, the wound is the place that light enters you,” Terri said. “Our light-infused wounds can become beacons for helping others to heal.” When we let love and light into these wounds, she told them, they become scabs and then, eventually, scars. “In Sanskrit, a remnant of unliberated past experiences is called samskara, an impression or imprint. We carry these scars with us until we learn to liberate their foundation.”
She peered out at the faces of all the maintenance workers, housekeepers, restaurant staff, and management who’d offered strength in her darkest moments and helped assuage her suffering. She was grateful for the opportunity to replenish their strength and resilience as they had done for her. “I’ve learned that part of the healing process is that even though the scar remains, the wound can heal,” Terri said. “I carry that scar with me like a proud warrior.”
Years have passed, but the Monaco staff, both past and present, still hold my uncle’s memory near to their hearts. Kayla keeps a framed picture of her and Robert on her bookshelf at home, a reminder of life’s fragility. “It was a part of my mission to make sure the end of this chapter was peaceful for them,” Kayla says. “If these were his last moments, the only thing that mattered was helping them find the peace that they both deserved.” She works as a general manager for Equinox fitness clubs now and frequently shares the story with new team members to remind them about the power of hospitality.
James tells me that Robert’s passing felt like a death in the family, but the experience fundamentally changed how the hotel cares for guests with special needs. “Whenever a situation like this arises and we’re made aware of it, I always immediately think back to Terri and Robert’s time with us,” James says. “We certainly learned from that situation and utilize that in every decision we make for every family that comes here with these types of struggles.”
Roshid puts this knowledge into practice regularly. “There’s a 3-year-old staying in the hotel right now who has eye cancer that’s breaking my heart,” he says. When Roshid found out the boy’s favorite superhero is Spider-Man, he immediately sprang into action. “He and I have something in common because I love Spider-Man too,” Roshid says. “So, every time this kid comes in with his eye patch on, I have a tent waiting for him in the room with some Spider-Man goodies in there.”
He forwarded me an email Kayla sent to the Monaco staff in 2017, recounting my uncle’s heartbreaking story, almost two years after he passed away. She stressed how every guest interaction is not only an opportunity to improve someone’s day but also how those interactions can profoundly alter the trajectory of people’s lives. She changed Robert’s and Terri’s, and they changed hers. “Remember,” Kayla wrote, “there are a million Robert and Terri Barnetts walking around out there. You never know when one of them will walk through that door. So, keep making those moments.”
Adam Reiner is a food writer and editor ofThe Restaurant Manifesto. He is currently writing a book about dining culture for LSU Press and lives in New York City.
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