Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: October 26, 2025
Sime Hemingway did not sleep well his first night on Mars. There was no tangible reason why he shouldn't. His bed was soft. He had dined sumptuously, for this hotel's cuisine offered not only Martian delicacies, but drew on Earth and Venus as well. Yet Sime did not sleep well. He tossed restlessly in the caressing softness of his bed.
The waters that wrap the island in morning and evening fog temper the air of the latitude to a Newport softness in summer, with a sort of inner coolness that is peculiarly delicious, lulling the day with long calms and light breezes, and after nightfall commonly sending a stiff gale to try the stops of the hotel's gables and casements, and to make the cheerful blaze on its public hearths acceptable.
And now, here was Madame la Propriétaire, a woman five years younger and ten years better preserved, putting them both to the public blush, drawing the hotel's attention to what the hotel might have overlooked, in its long habituation to their surmounting brownness.
The winter season at the Hotel del Coronado had been unusually gay that year, and the young lady who wrote the society news in diary form for one of the San Francisco weekly papers had held forth at much length upon the hotel's "unbroken succession of festivities." She had also noted that "prominent among the newest arrivals" had been Mr.
Cross the western edge of the Rendezvous, and you are in the rotunda, the centre of the hotel's many activities and its very necessary hub. Whether bound for dining-room or parlors, for guest chamber or amusement room; whether attracted by the click of billiards below, or the brightness of the roof-garden above, all paths here intersect. On the first floor is the office.
Why, a new boy has appeared every time and fooled and fumbled around until you have paid him something. Suppose you boldly put your foot down, and say it is the hotel's business to pay its servants? You will have to ring your bell ten or fifteen times before you get a servant there; and when he goes off to fill your order you will grow old and infirm before you see him again.
He used to go ashore every night to foregather in some hotel's parlour with his crony, the mate of the barque Cicero, lying on the other side of the Circular Quay. Late at night I would hear from afar their stumbling footsteps and their voices raised in endless argument. The mate of the Cicero was seeing his friend on board.
Why did the carriage halt at a Gravier Street crossing obliquely opposite the upper front corner of the St. Charles Hotel? Why did all the hotel's gold-braided guests and loungers so quietly press out against its upper balustrades? Why, under its arches, and between balcony posts along the curbstones clear down to Canal Street, was the pathetically idle crowd lining up so silently?
Trenholm of the Amalgamated Press," I told the clerk in the steamship office over the hotel's desk-telephone. "Simply must get to Hong-Kong as soon as possible, and would like to go in the Kut Sang this afternoon. May I buy passage in her?" It was hard to make him understand, for he was a Filipino who insisted on speaking English, although I had a working knowledge of Spanish.
"It's because he's in bad hands, and still I have not warned him!" March did not see them again that day. In the evening, two men, friends, sitting in the hotel's rotunda, were conjecturing who yonder guest might be to whose inquiries the clerk was so promptly attentive. "He's a Southerner, that's plain; and a gentleman, that's just as certain."
Word Of The Day
Others Looking