Misadventures in Rome - pt 3

FINALLY, IN THE PLANE ON ROUTE TO PARIS! (BUT BACK TO THE EVENTS AS THEY UNFOLDED)

Finally, the exhausted-looking manager, frazzled and seemingly at wit’s end tells us that as we’re the last, and they haven’t managed to find any other hotels to accommodate us, we’ll be staying at the most luxurious one of the lot, and that the bus will be here “shortly”. He looks like he’s about to cry, and in his over-sized suit he looks like he’s literally been shrinking under the stress. The man probably lost a few pounds that evening. Before, however, the bus shows up, a couple of Italian carabinieri mosey on over. It seems they’re unhappy. One of the poor wretched forgotten souls decided he refused to sit on the floor (nor on the hard metal bars of the carry-on measuring stand) and grabbed a chair from behind a check-in desk. By this point, everyone was ready to lynch the carabinieri. Which I dare say they suddenly understood, when they tried to growl at us and were met by a wall of steely, sullen stares. At this point we were nearly ready to piss them off further, just to find a place to sleep for the night.


Around 1:30 am, FINALLY, the bus comes back, picks us up, and off we go. There are windy roads (on par with my tale) and little traffic. It’s dark. The bus pulls a sharp turn. We figure it’s about to break down. After all, what else could go wrong? But instead, the driver goes back up the road we were on, and drops us off in front of a driveway. The path leads up to a beautiful-looking villa. We’re at a Park Hotel. Four stars. Yay! Finally! We lug our things to the entrance, and go in. The night attendant looks at us. Strangely. We have two Italians with us, who explain who we are. The company called and booked us rooms, right? The night attendant replies that he’s never heard of us, and can’t do anything for us since the hotel is fully booked for the night anyways.

At this point, we’re all just laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation. It’s nearly 2am, the airport is closed, the Easyjet staff unreachable, and we’re there, tired, confused, angry and confounded by the turn of events. We sit down. There’s a grand piano. The attendant gets angry, because of course we’re angry and impatient. And there are 25 people in his entrance foyer that have no intention of leaving until a resolution can be found. Finally, creative thinking leads to the answer. We’re at the wrong Park Hotel. A shuttle bus is arranged. The man offers us coffee and water. The bus shows up, we get on, and it’s off again. This time, after another 15 minutes or so, we turn down a wooded alley, shrouded in darkness. It sounds like each speed bump will be the bus’s last. The path finally opens onto a lawn. Looming over it is a beautiful renaissance palazio. The house, about on par with what you’d expect from a British period film, is awe-inspiring. There are two other houses on either side of the lawn, and a fountain in the middle. We’re here. It’s now close to 3am. We shuffle over to the desk, where we have to leave our passports and credit card information – in case we steal the keys, or use the mini-bar. I get my key, and cross the lawn to find my room. I open the door.

Here, I’m struck by conflicting emotions. The bed is grandiose, with pillows and lovely sheets. The suite is large, with a flat-screen tv and a large bathroom. But the bed is unmade, there are wet towels thrown onto it, and at this point, I’m not sure whether I care anymore. I’m half inclined to believe that it’s just an artsy, original way of preparing the room. I wait, and my neighbor arrives. We check her room. Same state. I call the front desk, we go back, and are assigned new rooms. By the time I end up in bed, it’s 3am. I have a sneaking suspicion that without my asking, I’ve been booked onto a flight leaving a 8:55 am. Meaning I would have to leave the hotel, somehow, at 6am. There is a shuttle prepared for the later, 1pm flight that most of us were re-routed to. I turn on fox news, want to throw things at Bill O’riled up, Sean Ham-ity and think, fuck it. I’m going to get some sleep and have breakfast, and we’ll sort this out at the airport tomorrow.
It looks like I was right to. At least this way I got a modicum of sleep, am more or less functional, and am on my way to Paris, finally. We were promised some form of dinner, and lunch, but the message seems to have gotten lost in translation. The plane staff are charging us the regular, over-priced rate for food and drink. No freebies here. Well, at least I took that last slice of apricot tart after breakfast. And it was actually quite good. That’s something. I guess.

This turned out to be one screwy, strange week-end. After spending four days and nights in Brussels, it’ll be nice to finally get back to Paris. As it is, tonight I move out of my room, tomorrow I help a friend load boxes and things as he and his wife move to Beijing, and tomorrow evening I take a flight to Arlanda airport, Stockholm.

If you’ve read this post through, I salute your patience and rigour, or alternatively your obsessive need to carry things out to the end. And stay tuned, for the continuing adventures of Rob, interpreter, traveler, and paraglider on the winds of fate.