That’s a damned big green hotel, isn’t it? But it didn’t look like that. The Dyckman, as far as I can tell, never had a rooftop garden. It was not flanked by open lots planted with sinuous shrubbery, walled off to bar the hoi polloi. People and vehicles were not translucent, and the hotel itself did not stare down at the streets with a thousand hungry eyes, waiting for more souls to enter its portal and experience the terrors that laid beyond the revolving doors.
It is possible that horses engaged the streetcars in a race from time to time, as you see in the bottom left-hand corner.
You’ve just met the Dyckman at its peak, and you’ve learned an important part about its public relations campaign: lie on your postcards. By the time they’re here they won’t care.