Ah, the holidays. That magical time of year when people decide the best way to find joy is by chasing it somewhere expensive. Before you can say “ credit limit ,” we’re booking suites, buying matching pajamas, and pretending gingerbread houses are worth flying across the country for. And who swoops in to catch every wide-eyed, stress-frosted traveler? Historic hotels. The grand old temples of “back when things were better,” refurbished to look exactly like they didn’t look back then. They slap up garland, dim the lights, and somehow convince grown adults that paying three grand for a 7-foot tree delivered to their suite is a form of “holiday magic.” It’s the only industry where nostalgia isn’t just an emotion — it’s a business model. A powerful one. A profitable one. A diabolical one. You’re not buying a room. You’re buying a memory that didn’t happen. Let’s dive in. THE HOLIDAY INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX: WHERE SENTIMENTALITY GOES TO DIE Here’s the ugly truth nobody wants to ad...