The hotel industry is long past selling just rooms; it now sells stories. From ice igloos to treehouses and even moon stations, the spectacle is booming. However, reality is beginning to push back, argues our columnist Carsten K. Rath.
Holiday. Behind this word, it once primarily meant a temporary change of location. Today, vacations, whether short or long, have become a promising projection surface. For the most luxurious lifestyle possible, for a new self, for the urge for adventure. In short: travel and hotels are a promise that can’t be spectacular enough. And it must be kept.
Because those who simply relax somewhere afterward have simply too little to tell or post. On the other hand, those who have slept in a bed of ice, dined in an underwater restaurant, or hung in a glass capsule on a rock face, own the social media stage. And precisely this “storytelling” has long since become the true hard currency of modern hotellerie.
How far this phenomenon can currently be pushed is shown by a project from California. There, the start-up GRU Space is already planning to open a hotel on the moon in 2032. The name GRU, by the way, stands for Galactic Resource Utilization. The company was founded by 22-year-old Berkeley graduate Skyler Chan, who was supported by the renowned accelerator Y Combinator.
Rooms on the moon can already be reserved, and the non-refundable application fee of $1,000 is surprisingly down-to-earth. The actual deposit then ranges from $250,000 to $1 million depending on the category. The stay itself will cost several million; after all, this noble inn is truly “way out there.” In space. Where the thought of calling room service seems absurd – with a delivery distance of around 384,400 kilometers, if the desired item is not in stock.
Hotels as Story Hooks
Of course, the hotel on the moon is pure vision for now, captured in computer-generated images. And perhaps this extreme example is all the more honest because of it. Because it makes visible what has long been reality in many places: Hotels no longer just sell overnight stays with or without breakfast. They sell narratability.
The ice igloo doesn’t stand for comfort but for bravery in inhospitable temperatures. The room underwater symbolizes less secluded tranquility than the feeling of being part of an aquarium. The luxury treehouse in Costa Rica doesn’t just sell the night high above the ground but the illusion of being so uniquely close to the rainforest. These places are not classic luxury accommodations; they serve as stages for guests’ self-staging. Guests become protagonists of their own play or film, thanks to their smartphone, tripod, and the right hashtags. And with the quiet hope that the Wi-Fi won’t freeze even at minus 25 degrees.
All of this works surprisingly well, even in less extraordinary locations and regions. At least until the sets start to wobble and a concept becomes bigger and more important than its precise, consistent, and service-oriented implementation. With spectacle as an end in itself, the fundamental needs of guests quickly become secondary. As in hotels, where renunciation becomes a mantra: no windows, no electricity, no staff – advertised as “authentic” and “reduced to the essentials.” In reality, it often hides frugality and a certain exhaustion of ideas.
Lack Outweighs Experience
The problem for the so-called creative makers: guests can be sold many things, but they don’t forgive everything! At the latest, when the heating fails at three in the morning in winter, the internet goes on strike, and the club sandwich is out of stock again, the charm of adventure quickly evaporates. The story of a life-changing experience quickly turns into a deficiency report.
The pressure on “crazy hotels,” whether on the moon or our blue planet, is accordingly high. While a traditional hotel can mask its mediocre service for years, a spectacle hotel stands or falls with the extraordinary experience. If there is no substance behind it, every bit of craziness eventually wears off.
Against this backdrop, GRU Space’s moon hotel seems almost refreshingly consistent. It doesn’t even claim to be a functioning hotel. It sells a vision. A “maybe” that lies in the future. That’s precisely where its strength lies: it doesn’t disappoint because it doesn’t have to deliver anything. Yet.
That says a lot about our industry and ourselves as guests, I think. We are apparently willing to pay money for experiences that we may never have. As long as the mere planning provides us with material to tell. Exciting. And confusing.
Would I want to spend a night on the moon myself? I don’t think so. I value functioning showers too much, a good cup of coffee, and gravity. My back is very reluctant to be surprised. But I admire the courage behind this idea. And perhaps even more the future tourists who book it. The hotel on the moon that doesn’t even exist yet.
