brings me quick to the end here—and you to the beginning.
Best of all worlds? Near the other end of life now, I’d like to live here (again, as it were), maybe just down the hall from where you are today; make permanent and caressing what’s so fleeting and rare—the ceremony, the observance and protocol, the sense of affirmation that a place like the Monteleone confers. A certain kind of estimating, untrusting man wants to live out his winter years discreetly in a good hotel—where Al the bellman knows your name, where the bartender pours your drink before you even get there, where the sheets are crisp each night and the towels plentiful and fresh, your breakfast eggs are poached perfect each morning; and where, when you step out onto Royal Street to calculate the day, the doorman steps up with a grin and says, “Another beauty, Mr. Ford” (whether it is or it isn’t). I could let time ease by that way, you bet I could—which is to say timelessly, barely noticed—the way it passes in a good story that you read again and again and again, always wanting more.
Richard Ford
1215 Burgundy Street
New Orleans, 2010
Antonio Monteleone (1855–1913).
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