Julius Caesar once said, “I’d rather be first in a village than second in Rome.” One of my experiences in the city gives new meaning to his words.
I was traveling to the Eternal City for a quick business trip. Not wanting to be “one of those types” that stoops to staying at the Hilton out of convenience, I booked a room in a brand new boutique hotel not far from the Coliseum. Oh yes, I was the quite the sophisticated traveler finding this gem, reasonably priced, surely unknown to any other foreigner, in the best part of the old city. Bang.
Apparently, the gem was also still unknown to taxi drivers since mine couldn’t find it after 45 minutes of driving up and down nearly every Via within a kilometer of the Coliseum. He had the address and was using a GPS. He was stumped. He finally got out of the cab, had an animated conversation with a bar owner, opened up the trunk, removed my bag and informed me that I would need to walk since every road to the hotel was one-way in the wrong direction. An uneasy feeling began to set in.
As it turned out, the walk to the hotel was not far at all, though I also quickly debunked the theory that there was not a legal way to drive to establishment. Another taxi driver was happily depositing his fare at the front door. At check in, I was informed that my room had experienced an unfortunate plumbing incident and was not habitable. No other rooms were available, but not to worry. A room had been booked at another hotel. The blow of the news was softened by the clerk giving me a bottle of Italian wine. If only I had realized then that this was not an apologetic gesture, but anesthesia for what was to come.
A taxi was hailed (and again, the driver had no problem pulling up to the front door). 15 minutes later we arrived at Hotel Galeno, located in a perfectly fine neighborhood, albeit one that is about 2 kilometers further from the Coliseum or anywhere else I wanted to be. At 10pm, I assumed this was the only equivalently priced/quality hotel that available on such short notice. (Well, you know what they say about assuming).
After shelling out my second wad of Euros to a taxi driver that night, it took me a while to find the entrance because the hotel is set back from the street and has almost no outdoor lighting and no signage. The uneasy feeling started to grow. Finally, an inebriated and amorous couple walked by. I followed them to a small entrance on the side of the building and voila, there was the secret door to the Hotel Galeno.
The lobby was about 6X6 feet, which meant my drunk guides and I had no choice but to exchange basic life information while we waited for someone to show up at the front desk. (They were newly weds from Nebraska, by the way, and very proud of their state, especially Cornhusker football). After 10 minutes, Mr. Nebraska couldn’t stand the waiting (it was hard to tell if it was his bladder or libido), and simply walked behind the desk and grabbed his key. Alas, having not checked in, no such option was available to yours truly. The receptionist–a very pleasant South Asian man in his early 20’s–did appear shortly thereafter, checked me in and walked me down to room 16b, neatly tucked in between rooms 16 and 17. (Uneasy feeling increases slightly more at odd numbering). He left me with well-wishes for a good night of sleep.
My key, which was the lightest piece of metal I have ever held, wouldn’t work. I could slip it into the key hole, but the tumblers simply didn’t care and wouldn’t respond. So it’s back down to the lobby, where India man is again nowhere to be found. I wait. It is now 11pm and my hope for a light dinner (I had drooled over the thought of a prosciutto appetizer on the trip over) gives way to the more urgent need for a comfy bed. At last, India man appears. He walks me to my room, fiddles with the key, and by some sort of Italian wizardry, gets the door to my room open.
I walk in. Let’s just say that the Galeno lobby is extravagantly spacious compared to good ol’ 16b. Against all laws of geometry, the Galeno management has managed to get a twin-sized bed, a built in desk, a tiny bathroom and tv into something the size of a glorified phone booth. I am unclear about where I will open my suitcase other than on the sink while sitting on the toilet. Granted, that is efficient, but I’m in no mood to unpack while doing a job on the crapper. The bed is right out of the inquisition, a medieval mound of cinder blocks with a sheet thrown over it. I scratch my head about why there is a TV since it does not face the torture bed and cannot be rotated. And there is nowhere else in the room to sit and watch–how could there be? This would have meant eliminating the bathroom.
There are many things worse in life than cramped quarters, so I nobly conclude that I should suck it up, call it a night and worry about moving to a different spot the next day. But as I shut the door the door to 16b, I realize that I am hearing snoring in 17 and love-making in 16. And these are not subtle noises. This is low budget porn meets a sleep apnea clinic. There is no way I’m going to sleep. I decide the time has come to explore other hotel options.
It’s back down to the lobby. India man (who, this time, was there against all expectations) has no suggestions for me. Not even one. This seasoned hotelier has not one freaking idea about a place to stay in Rome other than his own hotel. I get on my computer (there is free wi-fi in the hotel, but it only works in the lobby–go figure since there are no chairs there–how could there be? Then people couldn’t check in). Blessed be hotels.com, I find a decent place, ironically just two blocks from my original hotel. I mention the name to India man and he snorts in indignation. He finds it to be a major step in the wrong direction. Personally, I take that as a good sign.
I go back down to 16b to retrieve my luggage. Apparently, the metal of my ultra light key has now fatigued to a breaking point because when I try it in the lock, it snaps off. There is now no way to get into the room. My uneasy feeling has grown to something much more, call it North Korea meets Comedy Central.
I walk down to the lobby, wait a couple minutes for India man (I never did figure out where he went off to all these times) and explain the situation. He stares at me in unbelief. He shakes his head. He chastises me for key-incompetence. He commands me to wait in the “breakfast atrium” (i.e four tables placed in a small alcove between rooms 12, 13, 13b and 14), while he looks for a spare key and a pair of pliers to remove what is left of the miraculously light, but now broken, key from the lock of 16b.
I sit. I wait. I wait a long time. I stare at room 13b contemplating the meaning of these b-rooms. My meditation is interrupted. Alas, the sounds of passion can be heard (quite clearly I might add) from rooms 12 and 13. I begin to feel quite inadequate for coming to Galeno alone. There is sex aplenty. All I personally care about is extracting my suitcase and catching five hours of sleep somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.
India man arrives after a few minutes (and not a moment too soon given the, ahem, bizarrely loud sounds coming from 13). He reports that he has found keys for all the rooms in the hotel except mine. What? 16b cannot be that special. I was in that room. There is nothing special about it.
He has, however, in another act of wizardry, maneuvered the broken key from the lock, which means that, at the very least, he can call the locksmith. The locksmith is not available until morning since it is so late. The locksmith may not be available for a few days since he is a religious man and there are several Saints days coming up. What? There is no non-religious locksmith in Rome? Uneasy feeling now becomes straight out anger. Indian man, in an unexpected act of responsibility, now heads off to look in some “other drawers” for unmarked keys that may spring my luggage from an extended stay in a strange, low-budget Italian hotel.
In the meantime, I’m destined to sit outside room 13 until, well, they reach the climax of their situation. And that they did. I am not familiar with Nebraska, but something special must be going on with the breeding there because Mr. and Mrs. Nebraska really did make an impression on me.
Finally, India man returns. Room 13 has gone quiet other than a lot of giggling. I’m beginning to dislike them a lot. Suddenly, the door opens and, I didn’t see this coming at all, out comes a topless Mrs. Nebraska. Our eyes meet (well, sort of, since she is topless). I feel really awkward, maybe she did as well, maybe India man did as well, so all I can manage is a misplaced and boldly stated comment: “Well done”. She is, quite obviously, unimpressed with my wit. She glares at me for a moment, flips me the bird and then asks India man about where the vending machines are. With that new found knowledge in hand, she retreats back into 13, whether for a boob-covering t-shirt or something else is anyone’s guess. Regardless, I knew I would never feel comfortable in Nebraska again.
As it turns out, one of the twenty-some loose, unmarked keys that were in “other drawers” fit 16b to the great satisfaction of India man, who looks as if he has just found a cure for cancer. He haltingly hands the key to me and implores me to “be f*&ing gentle with this one.” By weight, this one is a gold brick compared to the last key. I bite my tongue and don’t propose an alternative explanation for the previous key breakage.
It is at this point I pass on the news to my South Asian friend that I am moving on to a different spot. He takes it well. I grab my suitcase, and I walk back down towards the lobby. Mrs. Nebraska re-emerges, now in a robe. I wave. She ignores me. She asks India man about getting change for the vending machine. As I leave them behind, he is explaining that the vending machines at Galeno don’t actually work.