Something Over Our Heads

October 13, 2007

We landed in Venice at the peak of the tourist season: three backpackers, two sleeping bags, one tent and no hostel reservation. The decision to extend our trip from the European Juggling Convention in Athens to the coasts of Italy had been made less than 36 hours ago. Ferry tickets had been practically conjured up within a couple of hours by Yiorgos, which spoke volumes about his native persuasion skills, since getting anything done in Greece in less than half a day required no less than magic.

We wandered up and down the cobblestoned calle’s, going down his handwritten list of hostels, and getting turned down pitilessly time after time. Finally we stopped in front of a glass door, which had a handwritten paper sign on it that said ‘Backpacker’s Hostel’. The metal plaque right by the door had been conveniently covered up by a similar sheet of paper. The place looked more like an office than a hostel, but we were in no shape to be picky, and decided to inquire within.

The gentleman at the reception desk took one look at our passports and started shaking his head furiously. “Two Greeks and a Turk?? Mai in vita mia… We’ve even had an Israeli and a Palestinian come together before, but this I’ve never seen before… You are in luck, my friends. I have two single rooms, you can have them if one of you sleep on the floor and you promise not to tell anyone.”

A better deal we couldn’t have dreamt of… No crowded dormitories, no snoring, no smell… we even had a bathroom all to ourselves. “Wait a minute,” said Stelios, more to us than to the receptionist. “This is too good, what’s the catch? There’s got to be a catch…”

The receptionist smiled sardonically. “Of course there is a catch. Solo per una notte. I can give you only one night. Tomorrow morning you check with me again, if somebody cancels a reservation, I give you one more night. If not, you have a place in my heart.” He tapped his chest with an oddly sincere expression on his face. I wasn’t sure whether I should laugh or be scared.

The rooms were unusually clean, and the mystery of the covered metal plaque was soon revealed by the shelves and desklamps that were carefully tagged by l’Università di Venezia.

The night, being the only one spent in a bed in two weeks, was quite pleasant, so was our next day of mad roaming in the city of canals. After having a pint at l’Olandese Volante (the Flying Dutchman), we headed back to the hostel at 1:25am, which was about five minutes before its closing time.

Our friend the receptionist greeted us heartily, and informed that there were, purtroppo, no cancellations, hence no room for the night. Stelios was full of brilliant suggestions. “Can we sleep on the couches in the common room? How about under that big dinner table? Or on the dinner table? No? Oh well…”

As we were contemplating spending the night out in the city or at the train station, since we would be catching a train at 7am anyway, the receptionist reached for the phone. “Un momento, let me call my friend. He works at a hotel in Castello. Maybe they have a room for you.”

“Let him check,” Yiorgos turned to me and shrugged. “If we’ll be traveling tomorrow, I’d rather have something over our heads when we sleep tonight.”

The following minutes consisted of a heated conversation in Italian at a hundred miles an hour. I managed to catch a sentence or two every now and then. “Sì sì, dormiranno ovunque.” (“Yes, yes, they’ll sleep anywhere…”) At one point he lowered the receiver and turned to us. “Is it all right if one of you sleeps in the kitchen?”

Finally we were directed towards a tiny spot on the map, on the other end of town. “He has a place for you,” said the receptionist as he waved us goodbye. “I don’t quite know where, but he said he has a place.” I quietly hoped that it wasn’t in his heart.

After half an hour of hiking through the narrow streets with our backpacks, we arrived at our new hotel. As we walked through the nearly-hidden front door that was only recognizable by a sign the size of a postage stamp, we heard a surprised voice from behind the reception desk. “Oh… There’s three of you…”

“Yeees?..” Yiorgos cocked his head. I slapped my forehead.

“Weell…” said the receptionist, who thankfully spoke straight English without the interrupting Italian commentary, “I have a room. It’s a bit small. Do you want it?”

I looked around to my fellow companions. Our overnight ferry ride to Italy had been largely spent huddled under a staircase on the deck. As long as the room wasn’t the cleaning closet, we could probably fit into it.

“Aah, we’ll fit in no problem…” Yiorgos waved his hand.

Stelios just shrugged. “Better than the pavement.”

“Don’t say I haven’t warned you,” said the receptionist.

We signed in and paid, and I got the keys. “It’s right up the stairs,” the receptionist pointed at the rickety wooden staircase. “Right next to the bathroom. Try not to wake anybody, okay?.” He had a mixed expression of amusement and disbelief on his face, which should have set us off, but it had been a long day and there were few things we cared about by that point.

We quietly made our way upstairs to our new refuge. I turned the key in the lock, and walked in. As soon as I turned the lights on, I broke out in uncontrollable, hysterical laughter.

Yiorgos walked in behind me with his backpack. He, too, started laughing.

Poor Stelios never made it in.

There was no room for him to stand.

The room, being the size of a double bed, already had a single bed in it, plus a little table with a TV and a sink mounted on the wall for good measure. Seeing as the bathroom was next door, I wondered who had the ridiculous idea to put a sink in a room this size.

Once we managed to stop laughing and made enough room for Stelios to poke his head in, there came the question of logistics. Stelios, being the epidemy of chivalry, insisted that I take the bed. “You’re the lady, there’s no question about it.”

I gave him what I hoped was an evil stare. “Look, I’m five feet tall and both of you guys are about twice my size. If I take the bed, how exactly do you plan to fit yourself and Yiorgos in the room?”

It was, by all means, a legitimate argument, which was settled after a few minutes of bickering.

Yiorgos, being the tallest, took the bed.

Stelios put his sleeping bag next to the bed, halfway underneath the TV table.

I slept with the sink above my head.

The next morning we woke up at the crack of dawn, way before the doors were open, and left the hostel through the fire escape.

As we walked towards the Santa Lucia train station, Yiorgos shook his head and laughed. “You know, there’s only one thing about this trip that scares me.”

“And what would that be?”

“It’s not over yet…”

The TSM Fall Travel Writing Contest has been organised in association with On The Beach Holidays