The Walker House Hotel in Toronto, summer of 1975. Location perfect: next block over from Union Station, kitty-corner from the Royal York. A very different standard of accommodaton, however, with a price to match: ten dollars per night.

Dark, rickety, worn in every possible way, bathroom down the hall and sink in the room -- sorta like the no-star hotel in Paris where they charged me 5 francs a night because there was no key for my door, but not quite so clean. Come to think of it, not nearly so clean: the window was almost opaque with what looked like a century's worth of railway effluent.

Oh, and the noise. Round about midnight, I concluded that ten bucks was the all-night rate; the place obviously survived on the hourly rate.

No wonder the desk clerk looked at me so squiggle-eyed; I was probably the only woman he'd ever checked in with a suitcase.