our first hotel!

Joe & I have been doing a lot to save money while we're hear: savings account for coming home, extra tutoring for extra cash, hand-washing laundry, not using public transit... staying in hostels when we go on vacation. Don't get me wrong. The hostel in Paris was great, since we were out in the city & never spending time there except to shower, sleep & scarf down baguettes at breakfast.

In Frankfurt, we shared a hostel with something like ten other people. The floor was squeaky. We were afraid to move. I couldn't even roll around on my bed for fear of waking people up. I also started snoring. In a room with ten other people. Mortifying. 

When we decided to go to Italy, we looked at hotels & discovered that some were not much cheaper than the price for both of our beds at a hostel. So we did it: Mr. & Mrs. Betz reserved their first hotel room. We took advantage of the sunny room, good heating & nice shower–so much so that I think the hotel staff was a little concerned. After a morning out, we would come back for a picnic lunch of sorts in our room (fresh bread, olives, cheese, bell pepper, wine, too many pistachio-flavored cookies). We'd eat until the bread was gone, then settle in for a few hours of reading & looking out the window.

There were only three rooms occupied at the hotel, so for most of the afternoon we were the only guests around. It felt a bit like being in your grandparents' bedroom while the rest of the family is having Thanksgiving (or in this case, hanging out at the huge bar down the hall, watching old Italian movies). We didn't have them make our beds; we didn't say much, since communication was a challenge; we sat at breakfast longer than any other guests.

The owner of the hotel was a sweet old man with a voice like a commercial for Italian cigarettes. He sat us at our table covered in pastries, breakfast crackers, jams, honey, juice in a pitcher and yogurts. He pointed at each of us. "Cappuccino?" Si. Grazie. And we sat there, grazing for an hour on the first morning, enjoying a dining room that was set just for us & the bits of conversation we had with our host.

"Americano," he said, pointing to his jacket. "Kentuck." He smoothed the leather, explaining again that it was an orginal, American coat–from Kentuck. We explained, with hand motions and crumbs around our mouths, that Kentucky is close to where we grew up. Small world. Piccolo mondo.

The man behind the bar, an older, skinnier & more suave Italian–father, brother, best friend of our host–said nothing. He waved us to breakfast tables, opened doors when we buzzed & waved us toward our room. No words, just his hand directing us in these smooth motions like a gull on the waves near shore. As the week progressed, I progressed from murmuring "Grazie" as he showed me the way to simple smiling and giving a small bob of my head. "Well, what if he can't speak?" I was asking myself.

When we checked out of the hotel, the two men where standing together. The shorter man with the Kentucky-made coat pointed to his ring finger. He asked us a question in Italian and assumed it meant when. We looked at each other and began saying all forms of August that we could think of–août, August, after July, summer. "Augusto," he suggested. Si, & he shook our hands, congratulating us. He gave Joe a thump on the shoulder with a laugh, something he'd done with each question we didn't seem to understand during our stay.

"Bambino maschio," he asked. He was cradling an invisible baby in his arms, rocking it. This, I understood, was not really a question. I laughed while we shook our heads. Not for a while. He waved his finger in the air, nodding his head. Si. One. Small. Piccolo. We smiled, and we were on our way–out into the first truly sunny day of our trip. We walked toward the sea, taking all morning to get to the train station.

Remember: If you want to see what we saw, check out the picture on Flickr. Don't forget to play the Italian version of Where's Joe's Head?

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