Word: humid
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...focal lengths that turn their lenses into virtual telescopes. Some of them swing from side to side, reaching both horizons. But though the pictures show surprising clarity, their scale is still too small to illuminate fine details of objects on the ground. Clouds are another frustrating disadvantage; over humid Cuba they often spoil the view. High-Utitude photography serves best for surveying large areas that cannot be reached by fast, low-altitude dashes from friendly territory...
These performances are certainly worth seeing. But it is the few scenes (like the two I've mentioned) that make El Cid some thing special. All in all, there are worse places to spend three hours these humid, humdrum days than the H.S.T. One word of warning, however: Cambridge kids evidently agree with me, and they're going in droves; so every show is a little like a Saturday afternoon Kartoon Karnival. But you can just throw a pop-corn box back at the little bastards, and bury yourself again in the Infinemascope screen and Delightful Air-Conditioning...
Fighting the Army. The 171 pros who qualified for the 44th P.G.A. took one look at Aronimink's broad fairways and manicured greens, helpfully dampened by heavy showers, and pronounced the course "honest"-which is pro talk for "a cinch." But they reckoned without two handicaps: the hot, humid weather, and "Arnie's army"-the huge, unruly gallery that stampeded noisily around the course chasing everybody's favorite golfer, Arnold Palmer. "You can't think, can't concentrate," complained one pro. "It's damned upsetting to stand over a putt and hear feet pounding...
...Ligurian Sea. Her hair, done up in a bun, hung down in humid strings about her face and neck. He was rumpled. Both were tired from filming Jean-Paul Sartre's The Condemned of Altona in the town of Tirrenia. In one of those private moments that public figures rarely show the world, Sophia Loren wrapped her brawny arms around Carlo Ponti, her short, balding spouse, in a tender Neapolitan embrace. The photographers were not far away...
...paper for sale somewhere in the vicinity. On impulse, Sam headed for Houston. There he goggled at the sights: sleek Cadillacs schooling in the streets, glittering shops, new buildings all over the city, and more new buildings rising on nearly every block. A heady boomtown flavor hung in the humid air. Without pausing even to examine a copy of the Post, Hous ton's leading daily, Newhouse sought out its co-proprietor, Mrs. Oveta Gulp Hobby, and put in a magnificently reckless bid. Would she sell him the paper for, say, $40 million cash? No, said Mrs. Hobby politely...