Other Realities

Okay, I'll admit to being a "Lost" fanatic (does that make me a "Loser"?). I love mind-fucking themes that deal with time travel and alternate realities.
And so my mind wanders until connections are made between favored and savored concepts. One of these is the idea that I have had, since my relationship with the Atlantic Hotel, is that the building is located on some sort of rift or continuum (nod to fans of Torchwood) that explains the subtle but delightfully eerie quality the place possesses. It's like one of those rooms from the movie "The Matrix" in which Neo and Morpheus meet to discuss what is real and what is not.
I've wondered if one of Death's shades lives there, undetected, staid, and ultimately benevolent. I've mused about unnoticed passages that lead to some ancient and solemn secret. Another reason the Atlantic is so timeless, however tap rooted into the past it might be....no matter how many years stack up between the present and the past, the Atlantic Hotel continues to evolve in memory and serve as muse to many souls.

Beauty and Beast

So many fascinating people called the Atlantic Hotel home. I believe eccentricity to any degree is a prerequisite to living there. The following blurb is a freeform brainstorm of some of the folks I remember from The A Minus (our loving nickname for the place).

Martin, the hotel's manager (owner?), was a man of Czech descent. He had a shock of black hair and dark, intense eyes. He was often accompanied by a tubby border collie, who could also be found going for short strolls down the north end of Higgins. Not overly friendly, Martin was kind nonetheless, always permitting a drunk or two to couch surf until said drunks could make their way home.

Lovely Mary Jo, who sang in the band Soul-o-Flex. She had flowing auburn hair, pale eyes, and a pierced nose. Very nice person, an artist through and through.

God, I wish I could remember his name...young man, tall, svelte, blondish hair, usually dirty. Had a face that might remind a person of a young Leo Di Caprio. Incredibly sexy he was. He would come into Bernice's Bakery, where I worked for a spell, and all of us lusty lasses would swoon and then gather in front of the display case after he left, inhaling his b.o. as if it would get us high.

Chris "The Joker" Suters, a trust funder from Massachusetts. Definitely the bad seed in his respectable family. His face was slightly, um, off...his smile was too broad, revealing too many teeth and his eyes always glistened with mischief. He slung bags of gawd-dawful Mexican ditch weed out of the A minus at a time when not much else was available to acquire. Most people clipped their association with him not too long after getting to know him...not quite straight, not quite gay, his preferences and perversions seemed to defy sexuality. He got off on what he perceived to be his inherent superiority. Go figure. At the same time, he had a forbidding charm, and sometimes it seemed he was on the brink of redemption, only to tumble willfully and gleefully back into the abyss.

Lee, dubbed "the barstool philosopher", was able to spin yarns so tall they'd have bumped their heads on the ceiling at Charlie B's. He was from Alaska...convinced that the CIA was hiding the fact that aliens were building bases on the dark side of the moon. The yin to Chris Suter's yang, he was often seen drinking beer and arguing with The Joker. He also liked to fling potatoes out of his third story window, using his rickety loft bed and a giant, makeshift sling shot.

Kate, a former pastor's wife, was a Missoula fixture. She flounced around the U of M campus and downtown Missoula like an earth bound fairy, clad in massive hippie skirts, wool socks, and worn Birkenstocks. She knew absolutely everyone. Dean told me of a seder that Kate hosted for Passover at the Atlantic, authentic down to the bitter herbs which symbolize the bitterness of slavery. Long after she moved out of The Atlantic, she told me the story of her recent break up with her son's father and left me with this piece of advice: Never trust a man who steals your bear rope.

Marina, the mellow baker at Bernice's, whose life seemed perfect to me at the time...had finished college, lived in the Atlantic, had a great job, and was just enjoying life until the next phase, whenever and whatever that was. She was not too quiet nor too talkative... humorous, kind, and all kinds of cute. There was an old soul wisdom, a stability about Marina, which may have been part of the reason she was attracted to the A minus and lived there contently.

Too many vignettes to remember, but they will return to the forefront of memory, as they tend to do.

All Hallowed Saints

Halloween 1991...big party at The Atlantic. Amidst a heady swirl of drugs and drink of every scent and savor, I had perhaps placed too much faith in the magic of the evening. Certainly, I had spent too much money on a costume.

My friends and I arrived at the party in various states of intoxication and in acceptable Halloween regalia, ranging from "road kill" to "goth for dummies". Inside, the wide, red velvet staircase, crowded with clusters of fanciful humanity, offered just enough room for us to make our way up to the second floor, separate, and eventually wander off into our individual misadventures. My own began at the top of the stairs, to the left, through a door which opened into a room whose furniture was covered in white sheets. I could tell that I could not handle partying with the Saints of Halloween tonight, and in this room I sought respite and, hopefully, a change of heart.

I slipped into the room, hoping to find some brief sanctuary. Inside, a giant south facing window looked out onto the pinkish, starless, night sky. Chrissy, the blond, blue-eyed fiddler from Great Falls, stood next to the window. Looking serene in a toga, she chatted easily with red haired punk, Nancy, from Minneapolis. Both women were holding fresh beers and when Nancy saw me enter in my raw state, she walked over to me and said, "Don't let it bug you. Don't think about him. Just have a good time." Her words, though kind, made me feel impotent. I could not have a good time. Then she handed me her beer and left with Chrissy, leaving the door wide open.

Shortly thereafter, I was visited by an unpleasant apparition, another blond in flowing robes. Crazy Emily...goddammit. She gazed at me with a brainwashed expression, told me how much she liked me and how she wanted to be friends. "God, you're beautiful," she gushed. She then told me, again, just how much she was in love with my boyfriend and how she wished we could share him. I said nothing, just stared and handed her the beer Nancy gave me. I'm not sure when or why she left, but I know it could not have been anything I said as I was coldly silent the whole time.

I decided to leave the party...I could not stay in the room, could not add any bacchanalian joy to the scene outside. My discontent and self loathing must have put off quite a stink. As I headed back toward the stairway, I was blocked by The Mad Hatter in his big, round, black-framed glasses and green top hat. He was usually ranting under his breath and could be expected to shout profanities and bitch about the lack of fairness in the world. Tonight his words were lucid and fortifying. He looked at me and said,"Don't worry about it. You'll get there." He then melted into the crowd. "Thanks," I croaked after him.

As I stumbled downstairs I grew increasingly aware that I would need to hole up again before leaving the party. I was not, however, aware that I was being followed by an ex-boyfriend who was apparently waiting for a chance to talk to me alone. I headed straight for the ground floor bathroom, seeking sanctuary again, and found my destination mercifully empty until I turned around to close the door. There, in the doorway, stood a young man wearing antlers and a loincloth with a look of lascivious concern on his face and a fat, aromatic joint between his fingers. I sat down on the toilet trying to ignore him... he followed me in and closed the door.

"I'm worried about you, are you okay?" he asked, handing me the joint. Through bleary eyes I glanced up at him, snatched the joint, and took a hit. I then tersely informed him that I was fine and was soon leaving the party. As I exhaled, I handed the joint back to him and stood up, feeling as though I were a giant towering over him, and politely nudged him aside as I reached for the door handle. He put his hand on my back and asked, "Can I walk you home?"

With the first burst of will I felt that night I glared at the horned god and snarled, "Fuck no!", pushed him aside, and walked quickly to the front door of the building. I opened it and ran into the night air, feeling bright hope, heavy sorrow, and sweet relief, all at once. My Halloween lessons from that night are as follows: Do not place any expectations on what effect any given grand event may have on your life. Do not spend a small fortune on a Halloween costume when a sheet will do. Have pity on and offer beer to crazy women who lust after your boyfriend. Marijuana, mushrooms, bourbon, and horny ex-boyfriends are an infuriating combination and will inevitably cause you to puke. And, of course, the Atlantic Hotel offers its wisdom to those who wander up and down the staircase, sometimes in a room decorated with white sheets, through a schizophrenic savant, or by way of an illicit toke inhaled in the bathroom downstairs.

A Ceramic Mind

There was a man who mastered the ceramic crafts so immediately, so singularly, that he was considered a savant in art circles around Missoula. He lived at The Atlantic Hotel when I met him in a clay class. I feel confident in two-dimensional artwork, and admire sculpture as a very high form of art, but my own skill in 3 dimensions is frankly limited. When next to me the savant crafted a revolutionary piece that shocked the studio on his first go, it was clear that he possessed something through his hands even as his mind seemed wandering closer to his god, to put it kindly.

He disappeared for a few weeks once and everyone worried for him. He had gone up Rattlesnake Canyon, into the wilderness, alone with his thoughts for a fortnight. I wondered why anyone so seemingly lost in their own thoughts while in town would need to go away from society to dig deeper into himself, but he had his reasons.

As much as I admired him as an artist, as is so often the case his personality was so intense and otherworldly that it was a challenge to befriend him.

His legacy is there in the [first] floor bathroom where waves of ceramic tiles flow along the walls, the counter tops, the shower stall.

The Flying Dutchman

I wonder what came before The Dutchman? I only know of The Atlantic Hotel under the stewardship of Martin, a Dutch hippie who ended up in Missoula and somehow in possession of The Atlantic. The property was off the town's radar even as it sat centrally on the west side of Circle Square at the roundabout of Higgins Avenue by the train depot. Missoula was in amber in the 80s in terms of development, in any case, and The Dutchman was able to create a warren of living quarters and slowly rehabilitating the place.

I discovered it through Aaron, who found his way there as a musician and student, around 1988. The hotel was not in great shape, but as each person came and went it seemed to rise to life with new art, fresh tiles, and later a shiny wood floor throughout that Aaron refinished after decades of paint, carpet, and neglect.

I am curious how The Dutchman acquired the place and why? What brought him from the Low Countries to The Rocky Mountains? Why was he so dedicated to it?

Edifice Rex

The Atlantic Hotel rests its foundation on the north end, west side of Higgins Avenue, just south of the Bayern Brewery. Mercifully close to all downtown drinking establishments, I remember more than a few nights of stumbling into the grandad of downtown edifices to rest my body and spirit before heading home. These memories are appropriately hazy, hazy as the stoic clouds of smoke ( incense, tobacco, ganja) that billowed forth from the windows and doors of the venerable structure.

Just like many old gentlemen, The Atlantic has myriad stories to tell. Wonder how he would interpret mine, despite the fact that I never lived in the building...it would have overstimulating. But I always had the feeling that this building has an awareness and a soul and has been and will be storing the memories of everyone who ever strode up its wide, red velvet staircase. Perhaps in another life, I will be able to ask the soul of The Atlantic to spill its secrets...I will sit back with a cup of strong coffee and just listen.

From the Seventies

Across the Atlantic is a blog inspired by a building, a hotel on Circle Square in downtown Missoula, Montana. It has a rich history as an attractor for artists, a place for parties, a refuge from the mainstream, an epicenter of the arts, and a home to many people who have lived in this mountain town.
The Park Hotel is directly north of The Atlantic Hotel.
This snapshot is a vintage flickr find called Scarlett and the Park Hotel, clearly not about The Atlantic, but included here to show the immediate environment that The Atlantic Hotel exists in. Rather than being an island, it is a part of a district in a town that has a long counter-cultural history in the state.

photo credits: fieldnine from flickr