Blah, blah, blah.
We're having a good time, yes. But we're both missing the goddamn cats something fierce, and the part of me that never wants to be pried out of its dark, cozy hidey hole in very much not happy about being thirteen hundred miles from home. The hotel is beautiful, and, yes, Faulkner, Hemingway, Eudora Welty, Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, and fuck knows who else once upon a time stayed, lived, and wrote here. But the Hotel Monteleone of that time is not the same as the Hotel Monteleone of this time. Few authors could afford this place for even a single night. As you enter the lobby from Royal, there's a display featuring books and memorabilia commemorating all those literary figures who have slept here. In truth, the hotel is, I fear, an overpriced Disneyfied caricature of what it must once have been. There are suites named for various of the aforementioned personages. The Ernest Hemingway Literary Suite. Shit like that. Hemingway would probably have broken someone's jaw over such nonsense, unless, perhaps, he was first plied with liquor from the nightmarishly...well...nightmarish Carousel Bar. Oh, and all the windows are fucking welded shut, so we're at the mercy of AC that never shuts off.
What I'm enjoying is being back in the Quarter after so long. The heat is keeping us inside until after sunset, and, even then, the heat index is staying in the nineties towards and past midnight. Daytime heat indices are over 100F. But those hot nights are heaven, and Spooky and I have had a couple of long walks after dark.
I do my best to be Not A Tourst, identifying all those characteristics that mark a tourist and avoiding them.
As best I can.
I have an interview at four (CDT), then dinner with some folks at five-thirty, before a two-hour signing thingy. So I ought go. There may not be another entry until after I return to Providence.
In The Sun,