Saturday, December 16, 2006

Tiny Seawolf rests in the shadow of the great mountain

After my attempt to infiltrate Hearst Castle on foot failed, we took the bus up the hill for a tour. The driver told us to be on the lookout for strange animals.

We had decided on Tour #2, which meant you got to see Hearst's mistress's bedroom. And Hearst's own bathroom scale. In his dustless dressing room, a pink silk nightshirt hangs. But Hearst's beloved Castle seems almost empty of echoes. I was listening hard, in between trying to figure out if the tour guide was going to give us any good dirt. As she gestured toward dull tomes and ancient Greek drinking cups in the guest library, with a rustle of skirts a blonde starlet, hearing something herself, quickly put down her hard-backed volume and rose up from the couch, vanishing.

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