Could you direct me to the telephone booths, please?

 I had just stepped off my flight after landing at New Orleans Shushan Airport...it was sunny, but cool...a typical New Orleans March day...in 1934.  The terminal was new, and so was I...a green and untested journalist-wanna-be.  

Excuse me, could you direct me to the telephone?  I need to call my editor.

I am certain I detected a subtle roll of his eyes as the porter nodded toward the left...and then the right.  Take your pick, lady--either side gets you there.

 My hands were shaking as I dug through the coins in my change purse, grasping the crumpled number in my hand.  Luck was with me, and all three booths were empty.

I pulled the door closed behind me, and sat down.  This could take a while.