The hospitality sector in the United States is experiencing a surge, we are told, as the 2026 World Cup draws near. Hotels are booking up, restaurants are expanding, and the usual suspects are hailing this as a triumph of American capitalism. But let us not be fooled by a temporary sugar rush. This is not a sign of robust national health. It is a quick fix for a civilisation in decay, a last gasp of the consumerist orgy before the inevitable hangover.
Compare this to the great hotel boom in Gilded Age New York, when the Waldorf Astoria and its ilk rose to cater to the rapacious appetites of a new aristocracy. That era ended in the Panic of 1893, a collapse fuelled by overexpansion and speculative mania. The parallels are uncomfortable. We are seeing the same pattern: a frenzy of building, a reliance on foreign tourists (the modern equivalent of the robber barons' European jaunts), and a fundamental neglect of the structural rot beneath.
The rot is intellectual and civic. While we toast our newfound hospitality wealth, our universities churn out graduates who cannot distinguish between a metaphor and a meme. Our political discourse is a circus of slogans and tantrums. Our infrastructure crumbles, and our national identity fragments into warring tribes. The World Cup will provide a momentary distraction, a festival of kitschy nationalism, but it will not reverse the trends that have turned America from a beacon of enlightenment into a theme park for global elites.
Consider the Victorian Era, which I often invoke because its trajectory mirrors our own. The Victorians were masters of pageantry, of grand exhibitions and royal jubilees that masked the deep anxieties of an empire in decline. The Great Exhibition of 1851 was a celebration of industry and progress, yet within a generation, the British Empire was grappling with the Boer War, Irish home rule, and the rise of German competition. Sound familiar? We are hosting the World Cup while China builds infrastructure in Africa, while India launches satellites, while the European Union (for all its flaws) debates the future of democracy. We are busy polishing the brass on the Titanic.
And what of the supposed boom itself? The numbers are certainly impressive: billions in projected spending, thousands of new jobs. But let us examine the nature of these jobs. They are in hospitality, a sector notorious for low wages, precarious hours, and minimal benefits. This is not the kind of employment that builds a middle class. It is the kind that creates a servile class, a race of waiters and concierges for the global plutocracy. We are becoming a nation of servants, dressed in smart uniforms and trained to smile, while the real power resides elsewhere.
The boomers in the boardroom will tell you this is nonsense. They will point to the GDP figures, the smiling faces of tourists, the gleaming new hotels. But they are the same people who told us the financial crisis of 2008 was a blip, that endless war was a necessity, that the digital revolution would bring us all together. They are the high priests of a religion of growth that has no answer for the moral and intellectual bankruptcy it perpetuates.
I am not opposed to the World Cup itself. Football is a beautiful game, and I shall enjoy watching it with a fine single malt. But let us not mistake a global sporting event for a national renaissance. The hospitality boom is a symptom, not a cure. It is the Roman Empire building grander and grander arenas while the barbarians gather at the gates. It is the Victorian-era aristocrat hosting a lavish dinner party while the poor riot in the streets.
The real question is not whether we can host a successful World Cup. We can, because we have the money and the logistical capacity. The real question is whether we can host it and still look ourselves in the mirror. Can we celebrate our 'greatness' while our schools fail our children, while our civic life decays, while our national story becomes a series of divisive and shallow narratives? I fear not.
So raise a glass to the hospitality boom. Enjoy the spectacle. But remember: the party will end, and when it does, we will be left with the same hollowed out institutions, the same frayed social fabric, and the same nagging sense that we have been sold a lie. The World Cup is not our salvation. It is our last hurrah.
