Tour

The landing was the width of the building with three doors, the men's room on the right and women's on the left, while the center door was to the dining room, which was a more rectangular than square room moving away from the door. It contained two end-to-end picnic tables, the kitchen at the other end, and one could buy what he had from a guy in his mid-twenties, always slightly unshaven and ruffled, with apparently nothing else to do, the proprietor of the whole establishment, but I don't remember if he owned it.

The event of the stay, two or three weeks, a storm of pompous, momentous fury, raged for six days, and rested on gusts, of be-fearful breeze - on the seventh. I did not leave the building for five days, the pouncing winds off the Mediterranean across the street came blasting into the vestibule. There was a flaw and a glaring one, a cheap place to stay, even for its location, the huge window glass, overlooking the vacant cold-stone lobby was gone, completely vanished, the large gaping sea-light, broken-out window, for the furies to blow-through a wind tunnel, the spiraling savage intimations, pounding the door of our room, incessantly day and night, and an excursion-out, twenty feet down the hurricane landing to the center door for food, and back against the inward closing door, to pry it with bent knees, to shut the door against the ferocious winds.

The sleeping room was a rectangle with cots, maybe six in a row, my head to the wall, opposite the door; and two latticed windows to the east, opposite the sea with wood floors. I don't know why that particular cot, just left of center, pillow to the wall; and what, read and wrote is what I did for those six-days. There were other people, although I don't remember a-one, except the two, who came at some point, for just a couple of days, on their way to kibbutz-in. But they had just come from Haight Ashbury in San Francisco, which they said with modest pride, are you kidding-me, '67 boys. And would you believe, they had those same damn, my Roman Holiday boots, from the same damn Greek poet. This is starting to look-like an official pre-packaged tour, but even more they had sheepskin coats. They were a fashion pair.

The door was on the opposite wall to my head-rest, just down to the right a bit; and its opening, in came the storm, a mini-molest of mustn't; wended wrench like, through the room; scattering papers, and leaking, rustling, hurried-horrendous Whatnot. First time in my life probably, or at least since the time of my lower two leg paralysis; an embarrassment for my father, walk I say; walk you - more or less sissy, a state of oh I don't feel like walking today. No today I am going to crawl. I got pretty good at crawling swift and deft, and thought I should get rewarded for dragging my lower hindtowhere everywhere I wanted to go. I think my mother caught-on.

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