Life at the Palace A three-inch tall figurine of Dopey sits on the left of my monitor, a well-thumbed copy of Tom Sawyer on the right--for the vacancies and interstices of my thought. Friday and Orlando are spending the night with me, unbeknownst, of course, to the hotel management. I feel quite a lot consciously like a Spiritual Franciscan, maybe frate Egidio. I also feel a lot moved-in upon. But having it to give, means being obliged to give it--cheerfully. That's what Messer santo Francesco said. Even if it is technically illegal--and that might have been a thorny question even for St. Francis the Galahad of Christ: a doing good and a providing for the wants of our fellow men which is, technically, illegal. It's a nettle which has, as I see it, to be firmly yet gingerly grasped. Friday understands the delicacy of my situation (if I'm busted, harbouring the homeless, I'm out on my booty), and does what he can not to make me complicit, by just showing up at my door having already signed both in and out under the negligent conciergeship of a sympathetic night deskclerk; sometimes, as in this case, bringing a similarly needy friend with him. Convenient for me or not, legal or not, succour so graciously besought cannot be refused.