For a couple of weeks now, conversation around my town–and around the lunch table where I work, which isn’t in my town–has often turned to the plight of the Majestic Hotel, which had been recently boarded-up after the owner was issued a citation by the city for allowing a public nuisance. The hotel, closed since 2006, had become a playground for urban explorers, copper miners and other thieves, and various kinds of vandals. When plywood went up over the ground-floor glass, people other than the city and a few already-concerned neighbors took notice; I, for one, was optimistic that the renewed attention might motivate lovers of downtown, creative types, and investors to make a move on the property, whether that meant restoration or demolition of parts of the hotel complex. I had hopes that this might mean something good for downtown, the Park Avenue community, and the Majestic itself, which has some lovely architecture and a charming storied past. I was looking forward to a community meeting on Friday (2/28) to discuss other possibilities for the Park Avenue community–all in all, things were looking up for my neighborhood! Then, Thursday.
As I came around the curve where Central turns into Park Avenue, a messy funnel of black smoke was rising up from the top of the Majestic, seemingly right over the corner where the Gaul and I have turned toward the park about a thousand times before on our walks. A single fire truck was angled across the street out in front, and I took in a sharp breath before I thought, “Of course.” At that point, I could still drive past. At home, I parked the car, and before I even opened the house, I walked down the hill to see what I could see from the back side of the property. Here is what that looked like:
So, all the way down the hill, I’d been stomping and cussing. But when I saw the flames reaching up out of the roof of the building, smack in the middle of the building, I stopped short. I stood there dumb for a minute, and then I called my friend. “The question of what’s to be done with the Majestic is moot now,” I told her. “It’s burning down.”
As I stood watching, the reinforcements began to arrive. Firefighters from various other local departments bailed out of flashing red trucks and unpacked their equipment as their leaders were apprised of the plan. I saw three firemen carrying hose up the hill to unroll behind the flaming hotel. I felt reassured that they were mindful of the danger of fire running up the hillside atop which my house and others sit. I went home. Half an hour later, I stepped out my kitchen door to see what I could see. Since the trees are pretty bare this time of year, it is possible to see a little of the hotel from my yard, so rather than heading back down the hill, I just rounded the corner of the house. Here’s that view, accompanied by a version overlaid with a daylight shot for perspective reference. Notice that they don’t match exactly; the overlay (daylight) pic is taken from a slightly different angle.
Yeah, now I’m FREAKING OUT. “They don’t have it,” I thought. “They’ve lost containment, and that fire is spreading.” I should’ve known better. Those firefighters were so on top of that blaze–I cannot tell you how grateful I am to all those emergency workers who responded so quickly, worked so tirelessly, and stayed so vigilant over the following thirty-six hours or so. The smoke was pretty bad, the power was out, and there was some ash floating our way, but our house and all of those in our neighborhood were generally unharmed (as far as I know) by what could have been an utter catastrophe.
Over the course of the next few hours, I walked down the hill several times. Partly, I need repeated reassurance that the fire was still contained to the structure. Partly, too, it was so hard to believe, and sad. Even though I knew that much of the old girl was already beyond repair, and that this disaster created new possibilities for the property and, ultimately, the area, the timing was a shock. And the sheer destructive energy of a fire engulfing a building–even a small one, let alone one that spreads over such a large area–is simply overwhelming. It’s upsetting. It’s devastation, in full view.
This is the last photo I took that night: There are already lots of theories about who, and why, and under what conditions. There are a variety of attitudes toward this loss, and whether it even is a loss. I think it is. I think of all the people–famous and completely unknown to all but a precious few–who stayed at the Majestic over the century-plus of her life. I think of all the happy and not-so-happy events that took place inside those walls. I can’t help but think some of that history will linger there, on the block, near the corner I have walked so many times with the Gaul, and will again.
