The Vertical City

By that same architectural gesture of grief which caused Jehan at Agra to erect the Taj Mahal in memory of a dead wife and a cold hearthstone, so the Bon Ton hotel, even to the pillars with red-freckled monoliths and peacock-backed lobby chairs, making the analogy rather absurdly complete, reared its fourteen stories of elegantly furnished suites, all the comforts and none of the discomforts of home. A mausoleum to the hearth. And as true to form as any that ever mourned the dynastic bones of an Augustus or a Hadrian. An Indiana-limestone and Vermont-marble tomb to Hestia. All ye who enter here, at sixty dollars a week and up, leave behind the lingo of the fireside chair, parsley bed, servant problem, cretonne shoe bags, hose nozzle, striped awnings, attic trunks, bird houses, ice-cream salt, spare-room matting, bungalow aprons, mayonnaise receipt, fruit jars, spring painting, summer covers, fall cleaning, winter apples. The mosaic tablet of the family hotel is nailed to the room side of each door and its commandments read something like this: One ring: Bell Boy. Two rings: Chambermaid. Three rings: Valet. Under no conditions are guests permitted to use electric irons in rooms. Cooking in rooms not permitted. No dogs allowed. Management not responsible for loss or theft of jewels. Same can be deposited for safe-keeping in the safe at office.