"There is no evidence of its past charm," announces Bennett. Barren and blank, it has what he accurately describes as "an Eastern bloc vibe." A bland concrete hotel that looks like a Soviet apartment building (and not in a good way) hovers over a boardwalk scattered with benches, also concrete, which sounds cordial enough, except these benches, also concrete, look like you are supposed to rest on them on the walk home from standing in a nine-hour bread line while being tailed by the KGB."
"He [the author's 3-year-old nephew, Owen] means tombstones," I told her. "When you were off parking the car at the cemetery in Cleveland, Owen and I walked around looking for John Hay's grave. Owen climbed on top of it and hollered, 'This is a nice Halloween park!' "(That's what he calls cemeteries.)"
"Owen is the most Hitchcockian preschooler I ever met. He's three. He knows maybe ninety words and one of them is "crypt"?"
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