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Spanish terra cotta tiles led around the terrace. The hotel is spacious, windowed with paned arches gracing the walls and entrance. Skylights slice the roof, allowing shafts of sunlight or starlight to shine through. On this December afternoon it is raining; rain beats rhythmically against the skylights. The sky swirls with a blood orange cloudy wash, tall anorexic palm trees sway, each casting a thin shadow that looks like weary guard soldier with bushy hair. She looks at the hotel’s roof pitch. It supports a humble bell tower with battered stone sides. The bell clangs in the wind-whipped rain, a clang of longing, of calling, of waiting in the black heart of night, the pink heart of morning, the fretful yellow heart of midday sun, all the seasons of weather coming to sing with the bell, with its music of nature, and on this gray afternoon, music in harmony with a sky of relentless tears. |