The 1944 hotel-goer patiently stands in slow-moving queues at the understaffed registration desk. He rides to the wrong floors in jerky elevators operated by flippant, teen-age boys & girls or by deaf old gaffers. The call "Front" may bring a pint-sized bellhop, but usually the traveler totes his own bags. Frequently he is ushered into a room that seems to have been bombed: the bed unmade, the bureau loaded with dreg-laden tumblers, the ash trays choked with butts. One wet, crumpled towel is left on the washstand, the legacy of yesterday's guest, who seems to have shined his shoes...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
