No one really knows why restoration stopped on the abandoned St. Julian hotel, where commoners and kings once came to relax in luxury.
Perhaps the worst part was that, although the lobby bar stayed open, the doors had been removed from the restrooms. The L-shaped entrances continued to provide visual privacy, but the constant sound of tinkling and flushing, coupled with the wafting scent of harsh disinfectant, made patrons reluctant to linger at the partially dismantled bar.
Unsuspecting tourists wandered in from the street, guidebooks in hand, to order the hotel’s signature cocktail, the Juliani. An obvious imitation of the Bellini at Harry’s Bar, the Juliani was an overpriced concoction of peach puree and Spumante, tinged with raspberry liqueur and topped with grated ginger. Nobody liked it. The locals just ordered beer or a glass of Riesling, which they quietly poured into foam coffee cups to be carried outside.
Nearby businesses blamed the hotel for increased problems with littering and public urination.
There were rumors that the St. Julian would be replaced by a Chinese-funded glass and steel tower, that the property was being repurposed as a mansion for some eccentric Arab billionaire, or that the restoration was about to be resumed by the original owner’s descendants. For a while, it survived as a fading tourist trap, the once-elegant bar reinforced with plywood, the silk-upholstered lobby furniture replaced by acrylic picnic benches, the restroom entrances finally covered with heavy drapery. Small signs advised patrons to keep hold of belongings and watch out for pickpockets. Local people came only when pressured to give out-of-town relatives the celebrity tour.
Eventually, an international parking syndicate bought the property, razed the building, and put up a multi-level garage, which has been credited with jumpstarting the economic revival of the downtown retail and dining district. Across the street, there is a small dive bar called Julie’s that offers peach martinis.
Author's note: The opening sentence for this story came from The First Line Literary Journal, which accepts submissions of short stories that all start with the same first line, chosen by the editors.
R.K. West can be found on Bluesky.
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