Where are we going? Who gives a reserved room away? Dang, that’s a lot of pigeons. Is this porter going to drop dead hauling our luggage over this bridge? Who knew all of Europe plays in Venice on the weekends (certainly not Barb the Travel Agent)?
These questions crashed in my head as we uneasily followed our decrepit porter with his back hunched, his seventieth birthday a distant memory, and his hat borrowed from an organ grinder monkey.
One hour earlier, we had arrived in Venice at 6pm on a Friday night to find our room released. Apparently, our paid reservation only guaranteed a two minute check-in window.
So I pulled out my smartphone, consulted TripAdvisor, and found the perfect room on the Grand Canal…not! This was 1995. Siri was a gleam in Steve Job’s eye. We were at the mercy of travel agents, language barriers, tour books, and weasely desk clerks.
Instead, I turned to the universal language that makes men quake: sobbing. In two shakes of a Parmesan canister, the porter grabbed our luggage and hobbled out the door. The clerk grinned smarmily, clapped his hands, and proclaimed, “We possesses just de place from you.”
Rule number one of international travel? Follow your effin’ luggage. So against all reason, we followed those bags over three bridges, into an alley, through a steel door, up two flights of steps to a triple locked apartment door. All I can say is that we were young, invincible, and had NO FREAKIN’ CELL PHONES.
Methuselah dropped our bags and shuffled out of our lives. The dust motes swirled manically in the fading sunlight as I dashed through the serial killer inspection checklist: under the bed, behind the shower curtain, in the closets. We were sharing the apartment with three eerily empty suitcases, but no discernible bloodstains. So I did what anyone would do: I called dibs on the shower.
My husband cried bullshit on the entire situation, put on his armor à la shining, and went to find us a new room armed only with his utter lack of Italian.
Once my gallant knight triple locked me in (I mean who else could possibly have keys?), I stripped down to wash the dust of a thousand civilizations from my being. Twilight fell as I lathered up…and the lights died as the water turned frigid. Then keys turning in the locks. Naked wet panic is a beast all its own transcending geography. This Psycho remake was almost complete.
Quaking with sudsy fear, armed AND covered with only a throw pillow, I felt my heart leap as the door burst open to reveal…my husband. Shining with pride. He found a room with this view for us.
Distant view of the Grand Canal was much better than hanging around to find skeletons stuffed in the air shaft
We hustled back to the cacasenno desk clerk where my Italian grew some coglioni and his understanding grew by leaps and bounds. Pocketing our refund, we bid him “Arrivederci!” smiling as the collective groan of a thousand serial killers echoed throughout the piazza.
Look at what pumpkins we were. Perfect serial killer bait.
-Ellen
