Ah, the 1960s—a time when peace was groovy, war was grotty, and rockstars thought solving global conflict required little more than a bed, a bathrobe, and a borrowed guitar. Enter John Lennon and Yoko Ono: newlyweds, performance artists, and self-appointed saviors of Western civilization (or at least the parts with decent room service). Their weapon of choice? Lying very, very still.

In 1969, the Vietnam War was grinding on like a hangover that just wouldn’t quit. Half a million U.S. troops were baking in Southeast Asia, and back home, the streets were brimming with tie-dyed outrage and acoustic guitars. Amid this geopolitical headache, Lennon and Ono launched their second “Bed-In for Peace” at Montreal’s Queen Elizabeth Hotel—a week-long slumber party turned anti-war spectacle that walked the line between genius protest and glorified honeymoon.

Their first attempt had been in Amsterdam: same script, same pajamas, slightly more tulips. But for the sequel, they wanted something with North American press saturation. New York would’ve been ideal, but the U.S. had declared Lennon persona non grata thanks to a cannabis conviction (because nothing says “threat to national security” like a Beatle with a joint). So they tried the Bahamas. Too sweaty. Then Toronto. Too Toronto. Finally, they landed in Montreal—just inconvenient enough for serious journalists and just exotic enough for good headlines.

They checked into Room 1742 at the Fairmont Queen Elizabeth and promptly began doing absolutely nothing. From May 26 to June 2, the Lennons remained horizontal, surrounded by flowers, signs declaring “Bed Peace” and “Hair Peace,” and a rotating cast of journalists, activists, and curious randos. It was less “War Room” and more “pajama diplomacy.” Each day, they fielded questions about pacifism while occasionally being heckled by professional buzzkills like cartoonist Al Capp (who showed up, insulted everyone, and left—basically Twitter in human form).

But the true crescendo came on June 1. With the air thick with incense and half-baked idealism, John picked up his guitar and birthed a song so simple even a stoned college freshman could strum along: “Give Peace a Chance.” Recorded live in the room with a chorus of misfits, from LSD prophets to rabbinical peace activists, it was a chaotic sing-along that somehow crystallized into a global anthem. Sound quality: terrible. Cultural impact: monumental.

Enter André Perry—the unsung hero with a 4-track recorder and the patience of a saint. While John and Yoko led their ragtag choir in what can only be described as Woodstock in a bathrobe, Perry set up his portable studio in the same room, twelve feet from the action, headphones on, probably wondering what he’d done to deserve this sonic fever dream. But his engineering wizardry salvaged the cacophony, and after the Lennons were deported, he quietly sweetened the track in his Montreal studio with a few overdubs and backup vocals. The result? A protest anthem that sounded just clean enough to broadcast, but still raw enough to feel real.

It wasn’t just a protest—it was a branding exercise. Lennon, who by this point had figured out the media better than most press secretaries, understood that absurdity made headlines. So why not pitch peace from a hotel bed and see who bites? Turns out: everyone. Over 150 journalists paraded through the suite daily, scribbling quotes while perched on the edge of celebrity-laundered sheets. Some were charmed, some bemused, many just confused. But they all wrote.

Meanwhile, the Canadian government, presumably too polite to kick them out mid-protest, let the spectacle run its course. Immigration officers lurked in the wings, waiting for the final chorus before gently ushering the peace pilgrims to the airport. Montreal had served its purpose: it became Woodstock with room service, a protest with turn-down service, and perhaps the only anti-war demonstration that ended in deportation and five-star Yelp reviews.

Today, Room 1742 is less a hotel suite and more a secular shrine to performative protest. You can book it, sit in the same spot John once played his guitar, and marvel at the fact that two celebrities managed to turn passive resistance into a media bonanza. It’s immersive history for the Instagram age—where peace signs are optional, but selfies are mandatory.

All told, the Montreal Bed-In was ridiculous. And brilliant. And infuriating. And unforgettable. Like any great act of performance art, it made people talk—sometimes about war, sometimes about pajamas, occasionally about both. And if you squint past the cynicism, there’s something undeniably beautiful about a world where lying down could be an act of protest.

Peace, it turns out, sometimes starts with pillow talk.