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Which 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 dinning room, a more rectangular than square room moving away from the door, with two end-to-end picnic tables, the kitchen at the other end, and one could buy what he had; 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 spiralling 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; the door shut against the ferocious winds.

The sleeping room was rectangle with cots, maybe six in a row along my head to it wall; and two latticed windows to the east, wood floors; and don't know why that particular cot, just left of center, to the north the third bunk, pillow to the wall; what read and write; is what I did for those six-days.

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