The Hotel Russie’s brochure claims its linens are the softest, its toiletries
“organic”; here, Cocteau picked oranges from trees on his hotel balcony.

At my bed and breakfast on the Capo de Africa, foreign-exchange students
get drunk, uncover their breasts, toss cigarettes, and yell from their balcony.

A journal entry I write: “almost 4:00 AM, beer bottles are being thrown and
crashing into the street near the recycle bin. I can’t tell from which balcony.”

A guy hands me some hotel brochure at the Colosseo stop of the metro:
“Visit the Colosseum by moonlight or just fall under its spell from your balcony.”

Visit after midnight, and prostitutes will approach you in pairs—some with faces
as young as the girl on spring-break in Fort Lauderdale who fell from a balcony.