Suburban Renewal by Pamela Morsi Page A

desk. I glanced over to see a clean-cut young guy, his eyes entranced on a brightly colored CRT as he put a little mustached cartoon character through his paces.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said, clearing my throat.
    The guy jumped up, so startled he knocked his chair over.
    â€œSorry,” he said, embarrassed as he tried to recover his composure. “Super Mario.” He pointed at the computer screen. “I kind of get lost in it.”
    Corrie was smiling at him, sympathetic.
    â€œWe want to check in,” I said.
    He looked surprised. “Are you sure?”
    â€œWe have reservations.”
    â€œReally? Okay. You’ve come to watch the move? It’s going to be totally awesome.”
    I didn’t know what he was talking about. “We’re just here for the six nights,” I told him. “When I called I asked for a view of the river.”
    The kid laughed. “Hope you brought binoculars.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I was getting annoyed and apparently the guy could hear it in my voice. He immediately stood taller and his tone became serious.
    â€œThere’s no water in this stretch of the river,” he said. “They’ve drained it out.”
    We stood staring mutely at him for a moment and then beside me Corrie laughed.
    â€œApril fool! Right?” she said. “You’re early, the first is Monday.”
    The young man shook his head. “No, the river’s really empty. They drained out the loop portion of the river, the part that runs by here. Some kind of safety deal for the move.”
    â€œWhat move?”
    â€œYou don’t know?”
    â€œWould I be asking if I did?”
    â€œThey’re moving the Fairmont Hotel, the whole building. It’s this old three-story brick building. They’ve like wrapped these steel cables around it and put it up on wheels and they’re moving it west from Bowie and Commerce Street around the corner and down on South Alamo to Nueva.”
    He was pointing as if giving directions.
    â€œThat’s four city blocks, three ninety-degree turns and a bridge crossing,” he told us. “It’s the largest building ever to be moved. It is sure to make the Guinness Book of World Records. ”
    â€œReally,” I said. It wasn’t really a question.
    â€œMy dad says it’ll never make it. Anyway, that’s why we haven’t got so many tourists this weekend,” he continued. “Lots of places have closed up. And the river is just this big muddy ditch.”
    He wasn’t kidding. Within a few minutes we were standing together on the balcony of our very luxurious hotel room staring down at a big muddy ditch.
    I was angry and disappointed. Guests were supposed to have been warned when making reservations. Somehow someone had slipped up and here we were, slated for our first romantic escape to what looked very much like a noisy, busy construction zone.
    Corrie took the whole thing in stride. She was once more the sparkling teenage girl that I’d dated in high school.
    â€œCome on,” she urged, wrapping her arm around my waist. “Let’s look at the whole thing as an adventure. And we’ve got a front-row seat.”
    We hung up our elegant nightlife clothes and changed into jeans and T-shirts—the uniform of mud observers everywhere. With the enthusiasm of children we left our room and headed in the direction of all the activity, just three blocks from the hotel. Onlookers flocked the area. It was a friendly, festive atmosphere.
    The building had been jacked up and loaded on steel girders that formed a 280-ton-chassis. It was hooked up to three cranes and seven loaded dump-trucks. Having arrived late, we missed the start of the trek, but we were quickly filled in on what we’d missed by those who’d seen it all.
    â€œThe move of the hotel was blessed by the bishop,” a woman told us.
    â€œA rabbi and a preacher prayed over it,