I wonder how old the name is. It means something, Waldorf. It holds weight because of the one in New York, but this isn't New York. The years progressed down a different path here in Venice. They were a bit wilder on the west coast. More callous, more crazy, more cock-eyed. The elegance left decades ago, but the charm is still there in the dotted sun-rooms on the north wall, and in the white brick, and in the old penthouses on the roof and the old fire escape. It's a magnificent building. I take a stroll from the property on Breeze to check up on things like a worried mother.
The ground's wet in then night and when I look at the streetlights there's water in the air. It's not raining though, it's not falling from the sky, kind of like the drops aren't sure of themselves, and they're just blowing back and forth and swirling in the wind. The moisture collects on my skin as I walk through. It feels like silk curtains. There's two homeless men wrapped up in windbreakers staying dry under the eaves. They're listening to a recording. It's not music, it's a something else, and one of the men is reciting it word for word, both sides of the dialogue.
It's Gone With The Wind.
