An anachronistic fusion of european society and architecture at its various times—the affluent boulevard beyond King’s Crossing led him down an exotic vista of luxury stores, eateries, coffee houses, gift shops, confectionaries, and other establishments and businesses lined with trees.

Vacationing crowds occupied the sidewalk; wearing suits, dresses, blouse, trench coats, ulsters, and other pieces of clothing Satou could not name; with parasols, walking canes, or suitcases in their hands; and on the tiled cobblestone streets engraved with tram rails and cables suspended overhead: the pioneers of motor traffic drove past: vintage cars, many of them sleek, motor carriages, cabs, and from time to time there passed by him the heavy-bulk of a crowded tram.

The air was clean, refreshing, free of any scent; but passing by the shaded patios, there would always come wafting by a scent that would him want one badly. A cup of coffee, at least, to quench his thirst, freshen his mind; or a seltzer, with a sandwich, or a pastry, or whatever that waitress was bringing to a table over there; but he held himself back.

Now’s not the time…

Above, half-veiled by some misty clouds, too far to make out what it was, what looked awfully similar to the underside of sea-faring vessels—galleons, or man-of-war—cruised by. “Airships,” he remarked—a fleet of them at that—that before he could get a better look at them vanished behind a sea of clouds.

My eyesight’s gotten better, too… A lot better…

Ahead, a theater, with a garish marquee—and beyond it was a corner. Here, he had a choice.

He could take a right, or keep going straight, see where the boulevard would take him, eventually, and with the King’s Crossing right behind his back, be in no danger of getting lost. But on a whim he decided to choose the former, leaving the boulevard he was in for the narrower lane and whether such a thing was wise of him to do—only time would tell.

And perhaps it was, as across the street behind a row of parked cars, he spotted two constables idling next to a parking meter—Just the people I need, he thought. Here was his chance to get something done. But what to ask?

He crossed the road, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to them once he got close—once, twice, thrice—keeping in check his prosody, his accent, his phrasing of his words as best he could so that they wouldn’t come out pidgin; hoping, that finally when he would speak, that his voice won’t fail him.

Then, once he was close enough to be heard, he said: “Excuse me,” and tried to smile a little, wave also—which came out a little weak, feeble; or too awkward, rigid. Being too uptight, he couldn’t tell.

The two men half-turned and saw him; but it was the stolid-looking one who spoke up: “What can we do for you, miss.”

“I was looking for a hotel.”

“I believe you just passed it.”

A sidelong glance back at where he’d come from confirmed what the constable meant, even though he had already known what it was, having seen it as he’d passed by it earlier. “No, not that hotel,” Satou replied. “Too expensive.” And it was. Just the façade of it alone, and all the folks who entered it all richly-dressed, it wasn’t hard for him to guess that that hotel was barred from him and his wallet. He was looking for someplace more economic, temporary.

“What’s it called?”

“I-ah, no—I didn’t have a particular hotel in mind. I was looking for one.”

“Ah,”

“I wondered if you could help me.”

A brief pause.

“I believe we can. Tom, fetch the yellow pages, will you.”

The latter obeyed without a word and walked away towards a black vintage car parked nearby, their police prowler—

So far so good, Satou thought.

—and came back with a thick book with him under his arm. He handed it over to his partner.

Well-worn round the edges, the yellow pages printed with rows and rows of telephone numbers and addresses were far too small for Satou to make out what it said; but the occasional advert with fancy font and black & white illustrations about beauty products, restaurants, car mechanics, and whatnot told him the gist of it anyways: It was a business directory.

A brief lull settled, broken only by the intermittent sifting of a page or a car passing by behind them.

The constable, baton clasped behind him, started up some small talk.

Cordially, Satou answered him.

Eventually, the constable asked him ‘what she did’, and jolted, Satou caressed the lapels of his vest, unsure of what to say. He returned a wry smile, but was lost as to how he could answer him. He tried come up with something, an excuse—even if it had to be vague, so long as it was plausible—but he didn’t have to. His attention was required elsewhere.

“What sort of hotel should I be looking for, miss.”

“Someplace inexpensive,” Satou answered him promptly. “Nearby. Modest. I only plan on staying there for a few days; a week, at most. I’ll only be there overnight, I suspect.”

“Overnight accommodations. Short stay. You’re travelling on business, I presume? How inexpensive are we talking here?”

Satou hesitated to say, not when he was oblivious as to how anything in this world was priced. “Not too cheap,”

The constable skimmed through the pages again—pages that he’d already read and dismissed, or hadn’t read and skipped over. “Here we are,” he said at last; and tilted the book upside-down so Satou would be able to read it too. He placed his finger on a line, and said: “Mariotte Hotel, 4^th avenue. How about it?”

“How much will it cost me, for a night?”

“You’ll have ask them that, miss. It doesn’t say. It shouldn’t cost you much, I reckon.”

“I see,”

“No good?”

“No, it’s fine,”

“Look for another one.” The other constable suggested. “Give the lady some options here.”

“Round here? There’s isn’t much I can name… How about Clifford’s? Or Kerpal. There’s also Chase Hotel, on 5^th avenue.”

“5^th?” The other constable leaned over, sounding incredulous. “No. You read it wrong,” he pointed his finger at a line. “Look. It says Hatton, clearly. Chase—Chase Palace Hotel, it used to be called. You might’ve heard of it?”

“I might’ve. It’s the one near the Imperial Lane.”

“That one. Keep looking.”

“No, really, it’s fine,” Satou interrupted. “I’ll head there now, to, um—Marionette, was it?”

“Mariotte (ma-ri-o-ette) Hotel, on 4^th avenue. Are you sure, miss?”

“Sure,”

“If it’s the price that worries you, we could phone them if you want. It’s not a trouble.”

“No, really, it’s fine. It doesn’t bother me much. I just didn’t want to pay extra for some service I won’t use.”

“That’s understandable.”

“…”

“…”

“Will that be all, miss?”

“O’ no, I mean yes, yes—thank you. I should get going.”

“Gooday, miss.”

The conversation abruptly came to an awkward end at that. Satou had other questions, of course—other questions besides the hotel he had planned on asking. Too late now, though. Having already said his farewells, against his better judgement he could only resign himself and merely smile, thank them, and quietly take his leave.

The constable pinched his cap, and that was the end of that.

Tongue-tied, inarticulate—this wasn’t how he had expected his first conversation to fare.

Even now, he could’ve turned around and posed his questions frankly—it would’ve been a trivial thing to do—but his body for reasons of its own refused to listen to him. It stayed stubbornly shy. Must I really be so reticent?

Less than half an hour ago, he had promised to himself to not be so meek; but being assertive had never really been his strong suit. Social interactions made him feel out of place, queasy; and him having to be conscious of how he spoke a language he wasn’t comfortable to speak in (though english not his mother tongue, Satou was fluent enough to comprehend and speak it fairly well) and that to someone of a nationality twice-fold foreign from him only made it all the more awkward for him. He needed a break.

Next time, he consoled himself. I’ll ask someone else, that, next time…

Nevertheless, such seemingly trivial interactions spoke volumes as to what sort of a person he truly was; and it was clear to him now that it was going to take him a lot more effort than what he’d suspected at first to break through this stubborn mold of his. Habits don’t die off easy, do they? Not in a day, they do not. All things considered, I did alright, for someone who’s been a shut-in for… how many years now?

He was walking away, lost in his own thoughts, when the constables beckoned him to come back—he came back—whereupon they advised him to take a cab, since, as they said, to get to 4^th avenue by foot was going to take him half an hour at least.

Satou thanked them, again, and went on his own way, not intent on hailing a cab because though a cab would’ve known the way and got him there faster, it would’ve robbed him of the romance of sight-seeing an novel and exotic city for the first time, which, useless as it was, to Satou who valued his first-time experience, was also priceless.

“Half an hour by walk,” he thought. It’ll probably be twice that, knowing me. I don’t happen to know the way… Not my wisest decision here, but… besides, if I do get thoroughly lost, I could always hail a cab. So far, I’ve seen them everywhere…

Asking passersby for directions—wherever they pointed 4^th avenue to be, he went.

On his way, even the most insular gossips captivated his ears. Often, he found himself slowing his pace down just so that he could overhear some more of their words. Seldom did they turn out to be anything of substance. Besides their everyday hi-hellos, their talks, though diverse, were obscured from him by the very fact of a lived history he did not share with them.

For some time he followed the edges of an expansive gated park, walled off by ornate wrought-iron fences, too thin to slip through and too high to scale up and vault over. Finally, when he found an entrance for it, curiosity had him, and he entered.

A stark contrast from the city, nature preserved here in all its viridescent glory—his journey though the park led him down a colonnade of lush-crowned trees—where the breeze, refreshingly cooled, funneled here to a gale, lifted his hair and flailed it all over his eyes and dry lips which he then had to spit out. The paved walkways branched out into lesser trails littered with dry and damp leaves, each leading down to their own separate places of interests: memorials, monuments, hedges, fountains, iron-cast gazebos, flowerbed gardens, victorian-esk conservatories; and the one he had chosen to walk down revealed at its other end a beautiful vista of a lake.

The white and weathered parapet bordered the lake, which fell straight into the shimmering water. One hand dusting off of it, Satou quietly made his lap around it. Ducks and swans reposed in it; couples rowed in small paddleboats; an elderly man fed pigeons and doves his leftover crumbs of bread by the mossy bank; and on the other side, for a while Satou stood there, watching an artist patiently take his pains to capture the sun stretched-out like an obelisk onto his easel.

A tender hush washed over his heart to take it all in. Satou wanted to stay here for a little while longer, if he could help it, but the exit was near in sight. He made a mental note of coming back here and left.

It took him two hours, maybe more, but finally he had made it.

Mariotte Hotel with its fancy portico up a short flight of gilded black marble stairs past two rotary doors led his eyes down a sparsely crowded reception hall warmly-lit with crystal chandeliers—less flashy than the last one to be sure; more professional-oriented, modest—but it did not look cheap by any means to stay in, not even for a night. Cost being a concern for him higher than comfort, he was hesitant to even enter it. Mariotte Hotel seemed far from his ideal of what he would call modest. But he had to ask himself: Did cheap really mean a place could not look lavish or extravagant at the same time? He was in another world, after all.

He was non-committal.

Whatever the case—here he was, on 4^th avenue, in front of Mariotte Hotel: the whole reason why he had come here in the first place. Expensive or not, he was at the very least obliged to check it out; and if the price was right, check in.