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A few years later I took a room in North Beach, San Francisco --- in a hotel across the street from Washington Square Park, across which in turn was the the Saint Peter & Paul Church. The room had a sink, bed, a dresser and a window that looked out on an air shaft. It was the year and winter of '68, and I caught the Hong Kong flu from my visiting mother who probably caught it on the plane, and I spent seven days in bed, in that dark lonely room, too sick to go out to even eat. Maybe I was able to get to the community kitchen I don't remember.

In my stay there I met some of the residents in the kitchen, mostly elderly people having suffered some form of misfortune, like the old man from New York who was now a semi-cripple, having had a bicycle accident, or an elderly lady who had lost everything when her husband left her taking all the assets.

I remember on the eighth day of that flu so weak, still I managed to make it a couple of blocks to a cute little triangular shaped diner at Columbus and Grant Avenue, and sip down a bowl of beef bullion. But still I was fortunate. Some people got this flu twice. And an old man in the room next to me died, although not of the flu I am sure, and not while I was ill. After the body was found, they left the door open while they went for help, so I could see in, hearing the commotion and investigating. The hallway was wide and light, big windows at the end looking out onto the park.

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