Elevator

We stop in at the museum for refreshments and a quick look at exhibits of authentic dance masks and hand fans. I’m surprised to learn that the largest part of the collection comes from French artists who bought up the real masks at the end of the nineteenth century from travelers and collectors who foresaw the effect the Christian missionaries would have on the native cultures.

By lunchtime, the sun is peeking out and we have found a popular deli which serves chowder and seafood sandwiches. Lydia enjoys the pink, salmon chowder, but I stick with the New England style. Exhilarated from the walk and tanked up on good, hot food, we waddle back to the hotel. I think that I’ve gained five pounds in fifteen hours.

Glorious! We move our things, now smelling of smoke, to the smoke free room. The new room is everything we want. Too bad about the skin of my finger tip left frozen on the metal window frame in the old room. At least I won’t have to try to open the window in our new abode.

At six o’clock, I am outfitted in my coat and tie and Lydia is wearing a dress. We join the crowd waiting for the elevator. Finally an elevator stops and the doors open. One lady pops out like a cork out of Champagne bottle. If only all of her long dress had done the same. Amazing how fast these doors close.