Hollywood Boulevard Read Online Free Page A

the stairs that led down to my suite. That was when I spotted a cat walking behind a man. They were on one of the footbridges connecting the top tier of rooms, in back. Some suites are permanent apartments with tatty screen doors and potted plants and other domestic touches along the balconies. The man was pale— hair, skin, voice, stooped posture, he looked to be a full- time renter with a noticeable Californianess about him, a certain stratum of weed smoker with few ambitions.
    Â Â Â Â When you've haunted as many hotels as I have you spot the underlying characters, the tensions, the esprit de corps— or lack of it— among the workers, the essence of an establishment by the quirks encountered. The cat was striped rust and black, with splashes of white. Pale Guy said yes when I asked if the cat was with him. I said, "Hey, Kitty," in a high- pitched, girlish voice. "Hi, Kitty," I repeated quietly, remembering Joe and my long- gone sister cats. I thought of telling Pale Guy I loved cats but moved around too much to keep them— though that was more my former working self. Thankfully, I held my tongue. I did say, "He doesn't run away?"
    Â Â Â Â "Not when he's hungry."
    Â Â Â Â " 'Bye, Kitty," I said, half wishing the cat would follow me instead. I'd put out a saucer of milk, buy a can of tuna, make a little bed in the corner. Pale Guy continued on his way, Kitty in tow, tail hoisted high. I guess they've seen enough guests come and go not to bother. Pale Guy and Kitty were nuggets, though, not gold, but solid pieces of the texture of the hotel. I looked down and saw the rosemary right there at my feet. I bent to pinch a stem, thinking, as I always do when I pilfer flowers, if everyone did this there would be none left.
    Â Â Â Â The Hotel Muse is old by Hollywood measure, a nightclub originally, from the late '40s, featuring acts better suited to a cir cus sideshow. The hotel was added later. Halfway up the hill is the upper part where we are situated— modest cousin to the main hotel on the avenue. It's the director's whim that his wife and principal crew (mostly imports from the East Coast) be installed up top, forming a kind of colony. Andre likes the availability of his people grouped together, but there are fewer amenities up top. Be low, the pool is heated; Turkish bathrobes, wireless, DVDs, and cable are provided— perks for those who prefer sanitized luxury. With us scruffier sorts above, services are hit- and- miss; no DVDs or wireless. Internet and breakfast are had by trekking downhill to the main lobby area, laptop in tow. The lobby is small so most mornings Internet users from uphill gather around the pool, rain or shine, chill or warm, huddling under patio umbrellas. I've noticed a number of German film types at breakfast. They talked loudly on Skype as they pace, necks swathed in scarves, woolen caps pulled low.
    Â Â Â Â Andre's quirks usually pay off. I like his crew, and the arty types up here, for once inheriting the earth— or the spectacular view, anyhow. Our outsized, east- facing balcony overlooks a coral tree where wild green parrots squawk and screech each morning among the bright red flower petals. The landscape reminds me of the south of France, houses and villas tumbling steeply down the hills in a hodgepodge of styles, an architectural balancing act. The view to the right veers neurotically into L.A.'s urban sprawl and the sudden verticality of downtown. Straight ahead I can see the gray dome of the Griffith Observatory. On mornings when fog or the yellow- brown curtain of smog lifts, the San Gabriel Mountains are visible, snow- capped and reassuring in the distance. Brown- dotted hills segue into mountains in snow, urban and wild in the same snapshot. I hear there are lions in those mountains. I look out each day and imagine the city living on borrowed time, that the earth under Hollywood will someday shift and shrug houses and people,