{"id":88748,"date":"2015-08-12T15:45:33","date_gmt":"2015-08-12T19:45:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=88748"},"modified":"2015-08-12T15:14:42","modified_gmt":"2015-08-12T19:14:42","slug":"here-are-ghosts","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/08\/12\/here-are-ghosts\/","title":{"rendered":"Here Are Ghosts"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Jose Bautista, Hotel Palace de Madrid<\/i>, 2007<\/p><\/div>\n

\n

In the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our minority. In the little towns and villages there are no minorities; people are not numerous enough. You must see the world there, perforce. Every man is himself a class; every hour carries its new challenge. When you pass the inn at the end of the village you leave your favorite whimsy behind you; for you will meet no one who can share it. We listen to eloquent speaking, read books and write them, settle all the affairs of the universe. The dumb village multitudes pass on unchanging; the feel of the spade in the hand is no different for all our talk: good seasons and bad follow each other as of old. The dumb multitudes are no more concerned with us than is the old horse peering through the rusty gate of the village pound. The ancient map-makers wrote across unexplored regions, \u201cHere are lions.\u201d Across the villages of fishermen and turners of the earth, so different are these from us, we can write but one line that is certain, \u201cHere are ghosts.\u201d
\u2015W. B. Yeats, The Celtic Twilight: Faerie and Folklore <\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

In a Boston hotel, I sit waiting for a glass of sherry. The hotel is old and historic, but it is not what I envisioned; a corporate renovation has done away with all but the most stubborn traces of the past. Conference attendees stream through, \u201cJesse\u2019s Girl\u201d is blasting overhead. The menu has gone dubiously fusion. But then, this is why I can afford it.<\/p>\n

No matter. I\u2019m a master at ignoring the present. I find the reluctant concessions to history on that menu. I focus on the brass dial above the elevator, and the black-and-white photos in the lobby, and bury my nose in a book. The sherry is warm and sweet and awful, but that\u2019s my fault. <\/p>\n

A runner appears with my crock of bisque and a soft roll. \u201cIs it for her?\u201d he loudly asks the bartender, whose nametag tells me that she is Phyllis. I am the only person at the bar.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho else do you think it\u2019s for?\u201d Phyllis says. \u201cThe ghost?\u201d <\/p>\n

He plunks the food down in front of me.<\/p>\n

\u201cEnjoy,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

I take a bite. The roll, locally famous, is too tepid to butter\u2014the foil-wrapped pat is fridge-cold\u2014so I dunk it in my soup.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have a ghost?\u201d I ask Phyllis.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d she says, busying herself with inventory.<\/p>\n

\u201cA bunch of them?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHave you dealt with them, personally?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course. Don\u2019t worry, they won\u2019t bother you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not worried,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019d love to encounter a ghost!\u201d<\/p>\n

I eat for a few minutes.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe ghosts you\u2019ve seen,\u201d I venture. \u201cDo you know who they are?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she says. \u201cBut there\u2019s books.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll bet,\u201d I say. We subside into silence again.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs there a ghost that haunts this<\/em> room?\u201d I ask finally, after she has brought me the terrible version of the cake that was invented here. \u201cLike, here in particular?\u201d<\/p>\n

She finally looks at me. \u201cThey\u2019re ghosts,\u201d she says irritably. \u201cThey can go wherever the hell they want!\u201d<\/p>\n

I let her alone. It\u2019s clear she wants to watch the Red Sox play the Marlins on the TV mounted over my head.<\/p>\n

Sadie Stein is contributing editor of <\/em>The Paris Review, and the <\/em>Daily\u2019s correspondent.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our minority. In the little towns and villages there are no minorities; people are not numerous enough. You must see the world there, perforce. Every man is himself a class; every hour carries its new challenge. When you pass the inn […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":178,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13115],"tags":[1803,19133,1456,1983,6696,4131,123,8928],"class_list":["post-88748","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-our-daily-correspondent","tag-bars","tag-bartenders","tag-boston","tag-conversation","tag-ghosts","tag-hotels","tag-travel","tag-w-b-yeats"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Hotel Is Haunted\u2014But No One Cares<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Sadie Stein visits a supposedly haunted hotel.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/08\/12\/here-are-ghosts\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Here Are Ghosts by Sadie Stein\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"August 12, 2015 \u2013 In the great cities we see so little of the world, we drift into our minority. 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