sit.

The most significant thing about that man on the grass was that he was
in the heart of a great city. Cities are like homes. Some you're
comfortable in - some you're not. Now, San Francisco, it is a real city,
with all the metropolitan lares and penates, dignified and vividly
active. And yet there is no city in the country whose children may be as
"at home" as here. It is the only city I know of that has forgotten to
provide itself with nasty little "Keep Off The Grass" signs. It will
probably never be an altogether prohibition town.



Stopping at the Fairmont



It is best to say at the very beginning that if one is tremendously
wealthy he will not enjoy this dissertation on staying at high class
hotels. If one has more than two bathrooms in his home and can afford
chicken when it is not Sunday and turkey when it is not Christmas and
could stay at the Fairmont all winter if he preferred, then these words
will mean nothing to him.

She has gone, this friend of mine. All winter she has been staying at
the Fairmont. Much of the time I, too, have been staying at the Fairmont
as her guest. So it is with a sense of double bereavement that I write.

Talk to me no more of the comfort of cozy little homes. Give me a hotel
where I am treated as though I were a Somebody. Where I have but to