On a summer evening years ago, I was having drinks with some college friends in the lobby bar at the Hotel Monteleone, a landmark of the French Quarter in New Orleans, when one of them grabbed my arm, his face slack with fear.
“You’ve got to take me back to my room,” said my friend, who was in town from New York.
“Why?” I asked.
He looked around the bar. “I’ve had too much to drink. When we came in here,” he said, pointing, “I could’ve sworn we were sitting all the way over there!”
Read Full Article »