Ride a Pale Horse
“An eastbound journey from New York was always a trial. The extra six hours for Rome’s time zone made it seem as if breakfast was just ahead, but she felt as if she had been wakened—as indeed she had been—in the middle of the night. Bless Hubert Schleeman for insisting that his travel agent order a car and driver to meet her. A taxi, her own suggestion, would only have added to the hassle of arrival at any giant terminal. Porters were scarce on this sun-filled morning already threatening a midda...y broil. She found a cart, once she had hauled her bag and suitcase, typewriter and briefcase away from customs (more clothes than she had taken to Prague, blast her idiocy as she had packed; but in Rome she’d be surrounded by pretty dresses), and began pushing its load towards the main entrance.
A string of hotel touts, a sprinkling of drivers holding high their expected clients’ names boldly inscribed on pieces of cardboard, clusters of anxious relatives, a press of waiting friends—all formed a guard of honour to welcome the stream of arrivals.MoreLess
A string of hotel touts, a sprinkling of drivers holding high their expected clients’ names boldly inscribed on pieces of cardboard, clusters of anxious relatives, a press of waiting friends—all formed a guard of honour to welcome the stream of arrivals.MoreLess
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