The Hotel Chelsea feels like a grand old steamer ship. Between its guest logs, which are an alternative history of creative New York in the 20th century, its Victorian façade, and all the odes to what was basically a flop house (Leonard Cohen wrote a song about it, Arthur Miller an essay, Andy Warhol a film, and so forth), you can’t help but feel like the Hotel Chelsea was the site of one big endless, swinging party. People came and went, but they all left with vague impressions of a spirit that was baked into the walls of the place—a bohemian stain that deepened every time a new guest checked in—and they refer back to this place with a deceptively simple name like some haunted sleepaway camp. Fortunately, thanks to a recent renovation, you can take in the history without having to make a noise complaint or bring your own pillowcases. Perhaps the greatest thing to come of the restoration is that the original neon sign has been preserved, a phosphorescent totem to a time of strain and lewd beauty. Don’t miss El Quijote, the Spanish restaurant downstairs. —Nathan King

Nathan King is a Deputy Editor at AIR MAIL