43 (or Thank goodness I didn’t have to)

The newspapers said, “Say what you doing in bed?”

I said, “We’re only trying to get us some peace.”

                                                                                                                 --The Ballad of John and Yoko

 On 9 November 1966 John Lennon travelled to the Indica Gallery in London because, as he later claimed in an interview for Playboy magazine, he was told there was a “happening event”--something about an “artsy-fartsy orgy.” It wasn’t. Instead he met a Japanese-American woman who would from that time forward be inextricably linked to his legacy.

Somewhat ironically, the extensive press coverage of John and Yoko’s “bed-in” at the Amsterdam Hilton (in March, 1969 shortly after their wedding in Gibraltar) was due in part to the misbelief that their well-advertised “happening event” might, in fact, be an “artsy-fartsy orgy.” It wasn’t. Instead it was nothing more than a clever commandeering of the spotlight that Lennon knew so well how to use.

 Because of Lennon’s legal troubles (not to mention his well-played reputation as a bad boy) the list of countries that would allow John and Yoko to enter was rather limited. After deciding to skip the Caribbean as a suitable forum for their “bed-in” (John was convinced that the American press corps would not travel there to cover the event), and being asked to leave France, The Ono-Lennons settled on Amsterdam. The Amsterdam Hilton. Room 702.

Four years later, at 17:30 on Friday 20 January at Mt. Carmel Catholic Church in Essex, MD another wedding took place. John and Yoko seemed not even to know, and save the Essex Times, the American press corps otherwise ignored it. Forty-three years later, to the day mind you, Debbie and I decided--actually Debbie decided; I was clueless until I saw that we were in front of the Hilton--that a proper way to celebrate would be a visit to the place that remains as significant to the Fab Four’s fans and fans of John Lennon as most others in Beatles’ folklore.

 I’ll be honest, celebrating anniversaries, especially after #25, is a matter of making dinner reservations and using the time before the food comes to remember as many anniversary restaurants as possible. (Anniversary dinners are also a perfect time to ponder why anyone would spend waaay too much money on food and especially alcohol on a weekday evening when they should be sleeping because getting up at 5:30 is made even more challenging by heartburn and the lack of sleep. I know, I know...I’m a romantic.) So when I was told there would be a surprise and I was forbidden to ask any questions regarding the plan for that Wednesday evening, I thought, “What so surprising about giving hundreds of my euros to a restaurant that serves portions that belong on a tapas menu?” But, I complied, sort of.

 

The bus ride into Amsterdam (driving here is absolutely out of the question, which is fodder for a different blog posting) was no different from countless others except I didn’t know where we were going. When we got off at Emmastraat, the only thought I had was that to my recollection I had never been on the street in that part of town before. I was still clueless when we turned the corner and remained so until I saw the marquee for the Amsterdam Hilton.

Olaf

“Holy crap,” I said. “We’re gonna see Lennon’s room; aren’t we?” Debbie had visited the week before--thus the prohibition on inquiries--and asked to arrange a visit. The policy is simple. Anyone can see the room upon request, provided it is not booked. (They average one request per day!) They told Debbie that the chances of that were extremely small as it would be a Wednesday in January. Guess what… When Debbie approached the front desk and made our request, the clerk said, “I will see if the room is booked,” and he left. When he returned he said, “It is.” Before Debbie could say anything in response, he said, “But, they are not here yet, so I will ask my colleague to escort you.”

Now...I admit that I have the emotional maturity of a 12-year old pre-menstrual girl. Everything makes me well-up. Everything. My mother has been gone for 16 years, but the mere mention of her name can make me lose my breath. Kids singing St. Maarten songs at the front door, guaranteed. Staring for too long at photos of my grandchildren. (I think Anna, the oldest, tries to work me up. “Are you crying yet?” she’ll ask just before I assure her that I never cry.) For a hot second when the guy at the front desk said that the room was booked, I was a little disappointed (only because I am far too lazy to want to go home only to return another day in hopes it would be available then), but when he motioned toward the man standing behind us, I thought I would lose it right then and there. Seriously, all the way to the room (as Olaf, our guide, asked us about everything from why we are in Amsterdam to how we could look so young despite claiming to be married 43 years) I could feel myself getting worked up.

 

As we got closer and closer, I don’t think I even heard the conversation. He unlocked the outer door and pushed it open allowing me to see the space inside. The air seemed to suck out of the room. He probably wondered why I just stood there. Finally he said, “You may go in.”

 

The first time I stood in front of Johannes Vermeer’s A View of Delft it occurred to me that I was standing precisely where the great Vincent van Gogh had stood when he first saw the painting. I once stood in right field at Three Rivers Stadium where Roberto Clemente became a legend. I have been in the living quarters of Jefferson Davis, and I knew I was standing where Abraham Lincoln had been in the waning days of the Civil War. I’ve stood at Rembrandt’s easel and Louis XIV’s throne, and every time I visit the Grote Kerk in Haarlem, I can easily imagine Mozart as a child prodigy playing the massive organ. I once stood on an empty stage at the Red Rocks Amphitheater in Denver where the Beatles once performed, but last Wednesday my list increased in such a surprising way I think I would have traded most of the other ones for this one chance. Thank goodness I didn’t have to.

                

Replete with one of Lennon’s guitars and two pieces of his original artwork, the room is a shrine. Olaf told us all about the renovations done to the room, which now features Lennon’s  drawings etched on glass and printed on the linens and draperies. The bed is the same although not original, in fact nothing is. (At 1700 euros per night, 47-year old design elements won’t work.)

 

The whole experience is ineffable. I cannot, or I should say that until now I have not been able to say what it meant to be there. As a Beatles fan the “bed-in” is not more than the bully pulpit it was designed to be. Lennon was a master of the message, and for those of us whose only question was “What flavor is the kool-aid?” the event was not more than the goal. But...and it is a huge however...being in that room--seeing his art, sitting on the edge of “his” bed, knowing I was where he had been--was stunning.

***

Needless to say, after we seated ourselves in the Hilton’s lounge, the conversation did not include the 42 restaurants that paled in comparison to the night we were living. We were greeted by a server who promised to come back when we had made our selections, but when he did he brought with him two glasses of champagne--compliments of Olaf.

Like I said, stunning.