by C.J Duggan
‘Ciao, Samantha, come stai?’
There was no time to react, no time to run through my mental archive of Year Eleven Italian lessons to gather a response to the woman who approached me, a smiling vision in canary yellow as she took my hand and shook it vigorously. Instead, I blurted out the usual reaction to hearing my full name.
‘Please, call me Sammi,’ I said, taking in the petite, attractive brunette with the high-wattage smile and twinkle in her eyes. I felt like a bag lady next to her.
‘Welcome to Rome, Sammi. Mi chiamo Maria. Is this your first time?’
Looking at my scruffy, creased clothes and weary, clammy disposition, it wouldn’t be hard to gather that I wasn’t a high-class traveller. Still, it was a polite icebreaker.
‘I’ve never been anywhere,’ I confessed, glancing up, relieved to see the man was no longer at reception. I was safe to be as tragic as I wanted. Not that I cared what he thought, I lied to myself.
‘Ah, well, you are in good hands then; Bellissimo Tours is the best way to start your Italian journey, embracing the local attractions, culture, food and people.’
The fact that Maria had left out the word ‘budget’ was not lost on me. I could imagine her repeating this speech a fair few times, but she had it down pat, even if I did see her eyes glaze over a bit as she rattled off the details for probably the hundredth time that night.
‘Sounds great. So where is everybody else?’ I asked, hoping against hope that I had, in fact, arrived at the wrong hotel, and that everyone was waiting for me across the road, in a vine-covered four-and-a-half star oasis, getting drunk on wine and eating pizza while dangling their legs into a fountain. But I should have known better than to let my imagination run away with me.
‘Oh, they are all out in the courtyard; there are two entrances into the hotel.’
‘And I just happened to take this one,’ I said, glowering at the reception.
‘Never mind—you are here and that is all that matters.’ Maria clapped her hands together as if something truly amazing was about to begin. Maybe I had entered into the bad side of the hotel. Everything has a good and a bad side—even I had a bad side. It just so happened that of all the entrances in the world that I could have walked into with my matted, curly Mohawk, I had to choose the same entrance as the smiling, Italian sex god from across the way. Still, he was a distant memory now, and my night was about to kick off finally. With newfound energy, I grabbed for my suitcase, only to be waved away from my handle by Maria.
‘No, no, Sammi—let the porters take care of that for you.’
My brows rose. From my experiences thus far, I couldn’t help the reaction: I guessed the man lingering out the front, laughing and smoking with the doorman, was the porter. Nothing had inspired any confidence until Maria had emerged like a sun from behind a cloud, quite literally; her bright yellow sundress was almost as blinding as her smile. That smile was now absent as she made short, determined steps in her heels towards the front desk. Gone was her warm, carefree, welcoming air and reborn was Maria, Roman warrior, breathing fire in loud and quick Italian at the staff. Italian was such a romantic, beautiful language, even in such a tirade.
I was tempted to slink off into the night, cringing at the thought that I might have got them into trouble. I mean, I probably could have been a bit more inquisitive, looked around, asked more questions from more people, tried my luck with my fragments of remembered Italian. But all I had the energy to do was slump into the well-worn, yet very comfy chair in the lounge area and hope against hope that the answer would come my way—and it had, in the form of Hurricane Maria. An impressive little pocket rocket, she didn’t appear much older than me, and yet she seemed infinitely more streetwise.
Now action began all around me: the smoking porter quickly extinguished his cigarette and hopped into action, and the flustered man behind the desk, who until now had been struggling between flailing through paperwork and skimming over wall keys, was aided by the young receptionist, who handed him the correct key. His face plum red, he handed the key to Maria with what seemed to be a thousand apologies, apologies that Maria turned her back on. Facing me, she smiled brightly, and there again was the flawless professional tour guide; it was as if I had imagined her fiery outburst, though the ringing of my ears told me otherwise.
‘Sammi, why don’t you freshen up and come meet everyone in the courtyard?’
I didn’t know if it was the warmth of her accent or the notion of freshening up, but I immediately felt better. A nice hot shower to wash away the plane grime, and lathering of conditioner to sort out the curly mess on my head. That Claire had inherited Mum’s non-offensive waves and I had been stuck with Dad’s mop of dark curls was another way Mother Nature had conspired against me. I should have thought to ask Jan how a Roman summer would affect my hair. You know, along with all the other important things like tourist visas, airport transfers and luggage allowances.
My attention snapped to the smoke fumes emanating from the porter as he skimmed past me with my suitcase, motioning me to follow. I glanced at a reassuring Maria, whose smile seemed to magically appear anytime my confidence was flagging; she was programmed so well. ‘When you are ready, just head down past the bar and out the back to the courtyard. You cannot miss it, there is a sign with “Bellissimo Tours”—it’s a private function.’
I felt like such an idiot; a mere wander and I could have found them myself instead of sitting in reception like a bag lady getting laughed at. Still, at least I hadn’t wandered into the courtyard looking like a rooster to a group of strangers. I guess I had to be thankful for that, but, following the skinny porter up the narrow, rusty, winding staircase, I couldn’t help thinking back to those eyes, sparkling and amused, and it made me wonder. Perhaps I would have preferred the eyes of a thousand strangers, instead of that very vivid pair I couldn’t quite shake.
Chapter Four
With Maria’s sunny presence infusing me with optimism, I readied myself to see my room. If a woman of Maria’s calibre saw fit to do business with the hotel, surely my room would be alright? I soon had my answer. I turned into a long, dirty hallway where the peeling, smoke-stained wallpaper was nothing like what was advertised in my brochure; no, the reality was significantly more terrifying. It was like an opening to a horror movie; you know, where the lone woman is making her way through an abandoned, creepy house and you’re screaming at her, ‘Get out! Get out, you idiot!’ I followed the porter down a long hall that I hoped would never end, afraid to see what awaited me. But after eight flights of stairs, rising heat and no air conditioning in sight, I was suddenly praying for the next door to be mine.
Finally the porter stopped and I doubled over behind him, hands on knees, taking in lungfuls of stuffy, humid air, realising how unfit I was—and I wasn’t the poor soul who had carried my suitcase up eight floors! Looking up at the skinny-jeans-wearing young man who hadn’t even broken a sweat, it occurred to me that after a solid five minutes of climbing, I didn’t even know his name.
‘Mi chiamo Sammi,’ I said breathlessly, thinking to prompt introduction. But instead of a response, he simply turned the door handle, no key necessary, and dragged my suitcase into the darkened room. Not one to follow strange men into dark places, I ran my hand along the inside of the doorway, scrambling for the light switch. The fluorescent bulb flicked to a dull hum, illuminating the space. Only then did I wish I had left it off.
The room was occupied by three sets of bunk beds, pressed up against the walls to afford the feeling of space, but all it did was clear a section on the grubby, broken tile floor, drawing attention to the clothes that were strewn all over the place. Black wire cages that slid under the bunk beds were kindly provided to house and lock belongings, although only one person had deemed their possessions worthy of protection. The room, stifling hot, smelt like a locker room, and judging by the size-eleven runner that was lying on its side, this was a co-ed living situation. There was shoestring, and then there was whateve
r this was. Hotel Luce del Sole translated as Hotel Sunshine, but there was nothing sunshiny about this.
The porter may not have wanted to part with his name, but I sure as hell was going to part with my feelings.
‘I’m sorry, but this just won’t do,’ I said, shaking my head, half expecting Maria to burst through and yell at the man for taking me to the wrong room. That my private quarters were elsewhere, waiting for me with my clean sheets and fluffy robe. The man looked at me for perhaps the first time. I wasn’t sure if he understood what I was saying, but reading my face he got my meaning, yet still he seemed confused.
‘There has to be some mistake,’ I said, quickly rummaging through my papers, looking for my booking confirmation that showed beautiful, delightful pictures of a clean double bed, a room with a view and a delightful write-up about hotel amenities including a typical Italian breakfast, with milk, coffee or tea, plumcakes, small tarts, biscottate slices, toasted bread, jam, marmalade, honey, nuts and Nutella.
Please tell me the freakin’ Nutella wasn’t a lie.
The man took the paper from me, his brows stitched together as his dark eyes scanned over it. He then shook his head, handing the page back to me.
‘Bellissimo? Maria?’ he asked.
‘Si, si, Bellissimo with Maria,’ I said urgently, feeling relief surge inside me, as I felt a possible connection forming with the no-name bag man. Until he started to laugh, laugh so loud and shake his head, like I had just told him the most hilarious joke he had ever heard.
‘What? What’s so funny?’ I demanded.
Again he did not respond, he simply wiped away a stray tear as he walked past me to the door, trying to contain himself before stilling and looking back at me, only to burst out laughing once more before he turned and walked away.
Now I was mad as hell. I was hot, tired, hungry and filthy. A filthy mood, a filthy body and standing in, for all intents and purposes, a filthy room. I stood with my hands on my hips, turning around in the chaos before something even more unsettling hit me.
Oh, no!
I dived out of the doorway, skidding sideways to yell at the retreating, laughing man before he turned the corner of the stairs.
‘Hey, wait!’
To my surprise he actually did, pausing at the top of the stairs and turning expectantly to me.
‘Luciano,’ he said.
Finally, a name.
‘Luciano, where’s the bathroom? Ah, il bagno?’
Recognition lined his face before he nodded, pointing to a door halfway down the hall.
‘Oh, please, no-no-no-no.’ I knocked gently then slowly turned the handle, closing my eyes before opening the door and instinctively reaching for a light switch to click on. Only then did I open my eyes to reveal my worst nightmare.
A communal bathroom.
Yep, I was officially in hell.
I sat on my bed; at least, I thought it was my bed. I wasn’t quite sure, but I really didn’t care. There was a groan of the springs as I sank slightly, my weighted, tired body slumped in defeat as tears failed to well in my eyes, no doubt due to dehydration caused by the excess perspiration that misted over my body. By now I had imagined that I would be long checked in, showered and enjoying complimentary bruschetta and limoncello with my fellow travellers. Instead I was in hotel hell, all alone, thirsty, hungry and shit-scared about where I was, and what I had done. This was by far the worst mistake of my life. I had dreamed of Rome, the culture, the people, the history, the romance. I didn’t expect anything like this; oh, if only my parents could see me now. I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand.
‘Come on, Sammi, pull it together.’ I squared my shoulders; the image of Mum with arms crossed and an ‘I told you so’ expression sobered me a little. It couldn’t be all that bad; heck, if it was good enough for the five other strangers in this room then surely I wasn’t so prim and proper to think myself above it. This was an adventure, a dirty, grimy … oh, God, was that mould on the ceiling? No, don’t think, just be, I pep-talked myself.
Okay, this is the deal. Lock your belongings in the bloody wire cage under the bed, have a nice, hopefully hot shower—everything will seem better after a shower. Then head downstairs and get your bearings with the group, and grab something to eat. Some drink and food will set you right.
It all sounded so convincing in my head but the cold, hard reality was hard to handle. There was little toilet paper, the showers were blocked so the water didn’t drain properly, and they didn’t have a door so water sprayed all over the floor. The bathroom was tiny, so I constantly smacked my limbs against the wall and shower and bathroom door while drying off. It was soooo annoying. I wiped a clean spot on the mirror, reflecting a weary yet determined reflection.
‘Just you wait, Jan and John Buzzo, until I get home,’ I said, promising to serve them a piece of my mind when I returned, before scoffing at how cocky I sounded. Home seemed like an eternity away, and at this rate I’d be lucky if I survived the night.
Chapter Five
I was greeted by a sign in joyous cursive, saying, ‘Welcome Bellisimo Tour’, accompanied by a picture of a sun and a flower. I wanted to knock the sign off the easel with my fist. The sign should have read ‘Welcome to Hell’, illustrated with a cockroach and a pubic hair on a piece of soap. I guess I wasn’t in the party mood, but as I walked into the back courtyard area it seemed that I was the only one who wasn’t. A series of heads turned, revealing smiling, flushed faces. As they registered my entry, they paused their conversations to burst into cheers. I stilled in my tracks, caught between confusion and surprise.
A tall, blond male yelled out, cupping his hands at either side of his mouth, ‘Last one at the meet-and-greet has to do a nudey run around the courtyard,’ eliciting uproarious laughter and hoots from his audience.
This couldn’t be the group; surely this wasn’t my destiny.
With little time to react, the sound of Maria’s heels closed in, followed by a quick whack to my upper chest that had me reeling back on my heels.
‘Ow!’ I clutched my chest, stunned at her random violence, and rather surprised at the petite woman’s strength. I felt a strip of paper under my hand—a rectangular sticker bearing my name and a smiley face adhered crookedly to my top.
‘Come, meet everybody, Sammi.’ Maria dragged me towards the long table. ‘Everyone, this is Sammi from Australia; Sammi completes the puzzle of our little family, please make her feel welcome.’
‘You’re late, Sammi,’ said a raven-haired girl, her teeth gnashing on the straw of her drink, looking me over. Even though she smiled, her eyes said something else altogether. My attention dipped to her name badge. I had known girls like ‘Jodie’ before; she was the residential mean girl. I hoped I was wrong.
She, like the tall, blond boy, had an Australian accent, and it seemed that it would have been just like any given night at the local pub back home, until the boy Jodie was partially draped over—‘Johnny’, according to his badge—leant forward and offered me his hand.
‘Better late than never,’ he said with an unmistakable American drawl and kind blue eyes. I smiled, comforted by them, until I saw Jodie’s ‘Back off, bitch’ look.
‘Okaaaaaay.’ I turned promptly toward Big Mouth Blondy, who shook my hand with a wink. ‘Ciao, bella.’
‘Speak much Italian, do you …’ My eyes searched for a badge.
‘Nate, and I speak enough to get by.’
Nate was tall, athletic with short-cropped hair and a devilish twinkle in his eyes. He was cute, but definitely the kind your mother warned you about. No doubt I would find out his story, and everyone else’s for that matter.
Aside from two other Aussies—best friends from the Gold Coast, Harper and Kylie—there was Gary from the UK, who seemed reluctant to pull his attention out of his book for long enough to shake my hand.
‘We call him Bookworm Gary,’ Nate murmured out the side of his mouth in an effort to be discreet, but failing. Despite the less-than-
warm welcome, I felt for the Brit; he was probably like me, wishing to be anywhere but here. Nate was firing through the group quickly, going onto the table behind.
‘Gwendal and Marina from France, Em from Ireland …’
I began to zone out, until Nate pointed a finger down to the very end of the table.
‘And this bloke who, like me, is far too cool to wear a name, is actually a local; isn’t that right, mate?’
My eyes followed the direction of his finger and stilled. The local may not have had a name but he had a very familiar face. I would have recognised him anywhere; the mysterious Gino Bond who had seen me at my sweaty, messy worst was here, except this time there was no humour in his visage. Instead, as his attention flicked from me to Nate, I saw an ill-disguised look of contempt that said, ‘I’m not your mate.’
Nate didn’t need a translator to get the drift, and he slowly sat back down.
‘Aaand I think that’s everyone,’ he said, clearing his throat.
I stood still at the head of the table, once again finding myself staring at the man from across the way, feeling that same strange sense that neither of us wanted to break away, like some kind of telepathic competition. Just as my brows pinched and his mouth creased just like before, I remembered the reason he had found me so damn amusing last time, feeling slightly annoyed and totally embarrassed.
Next to me, Maria laughed. ‘Do you two know each other?’ she asked in a lighthearted manner, like it couldn’t possibly be true.
‘N—’
‘Yes.’
Wait, what?
The man lazily took a sip from his wine glass before clarifying. ‘Me and Miss Shorten go way back.’
He knew my name?
No doubt I looked just as surprised as Maria, and had I been sitting, I would have been on the edge of my seat, eager for the next detail, because I had no idea what he was talking about.
‘We go all the way back to the hotel reception,’ he said, a new lightness sparkling in his eyes.
