We left on Tuesday the Embassy Hotel on Polk Street and traveled through the gathering mist in a little cab loaded with our goods, south on Mission to the outer Excelsior. On reaching the Mission Inn, the meter came to 27 dollars and something. I gave the cabbie our Red Cross debit card and told him to add a six dollar tip. We later found that the Red Cross had been charged over forty dollars "for long driving." That financial transaction was symbolic of our experience over the next few days.
The Mission Inn is one of those sprawling motels on the outskirts of large cities, the kind bank robbers hole up in gangster movies, a kind of two storey squared half circle, where the cops or FBI close in on beleaguered culprits in the final shoot out. The owners of the motel collected a thirty dollar phone deposit from us (fifty cents a pop for local calls), and directed us up two flights of stairs to the second tier, Room 127. Son Guy laboriously lugged our accrued luggage up to the spot, as I followed (with growing difficulty) up, one step at a time.
The suite consisted of a fairly large room with a king size bed, a smaller room with a single bed, and a tiled bathroom.
We set up our computers and began to do our "work." Guy had no difficulty at first, but I could not make the Mission Inn password work.
I turned to making phone calls to the Red Cross, the Elder Services, our old property managers and various various friends. Soon, I discovered that the phone service did not work beyond the immediate City. That, too, was symbolic of other difficulties during our stay.
Later, Guy hiked to the Safeway and brought back some staples. We had the first of a series of rough and ready meals.
But the beds were comfortable, and as I increasingly reflected, after nearly 81 years of life, a beggar could not be a chooser.
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE: The Nation's midsection continues to burn up.
Macresarf1 will write no more this day.
Causes Alex Fraser Supports