Arriving in Italy

Well, I would have to consider myself off to a good start. Yesterday I boarded a plane bound for Frankfurt, Germany, after which I would (and did) switch to another plane, this one bound for my new home: Florence, Italy. It seemed to go off without a hitch. We arrived at the airport early, and it was a calm flight with tailwinds that got us to Frankfurt an hour early. I was tired, having only gotten about five hours of sleep the night before, and with the time change, would lose an entire night's sleep. I braved the two hours in the Frankfurt airport with no soda or snack machines and telephones which just refused to allow me to call my mom. The next flight also went well; it had a tad bit of turbulence, but nothing much. It was soon over, and I was in…FLORENCE!!! My bags came in less than five minutes (an airport miracle as far as I am concerned) and I walked out without so much as a customs officer check or a stamp on my passport. (Do I look Italian? It was an international flight! Good to know that security is so tight over here.) So I waltzed on out, planning to take the city bus to waste some time and save some euros. However, none being in sight, I hopped the nearest taxi, expecting a 20-30 euro fare, or more (today is a national holiday, they can charge more, and I had bags—I mean BAGS!) After a decently short ride, no more than ten minutes, the fare was less than 15 euro, and I was there, at the hotel I would be staying at for one night until my apartment was ready (i.e. the national holiday over so that people go back to work and I can get my key!!) The doors of the Hotel Derby could not have been six feet wide, total. We are talking cramped, and worse—closed and locked. After deciphering the buzzer system, I pressed the button for the fifth floor—the floor of my hotel, apparently. I was let in, and with some difficulty, I got myself and my bags through the doors. I saw a staircase, but thought, “fifth floor? I don’t think so. There’s gotta be a lift. Besides, I read something on the door about a lift.” I continued walking, to “the garden”—the building was in a square, four sides with an open middle. Some plants and a shoddy Christmas tree made it a garden. Onward, ho! On the right: a door, with a company name and something about a lift, although it was clearly not a lift. On the left: a second staircase. No lift in sight. I thought to myself, “no, not possible. A hotel on the fifth floor and no lift? I realize that it is only $55 a night, but wouldn’t only stairs be somewhat BAD FOR BUSINESS?!” So I went back to the first staircase to assess the situation and, if necessary, compare the two staircases. What is that yonder? A door! Surely promising. It did indeed appear to be a lift! I opened the door and saw two glass-encased-in-metal doors. I figured with the one inch gap between them, they were meant to be pushed horizontally out. I tried, and they didn’t budge. Oh my. I thought, “Hmmm.” I cautiously pushed the doors backwards. Success! Doors going into the smallest lift I have ever seen in my life. I had to get (2) large suitcases, (1) large duffel bag, (1) purse, (1) coat, and (1) me, into the lift; a feat which I clumsily triumphed in about five minutes of careful logistical planning, or just trial and error. (1) large suitcase pushed in the back left corner. (Other) large suitcase with (1) large duffel on top pushed against the other suitcase already in the lift. In went (1) me, (1) coat, and (1) purse permanently attached to my shoulder. I squeezed in, my feet somewhat sideways, falling into the lift in a rather awkward move. With some trouble, I managed to get the doors shut. I pressed the button for the fifth floor, for the Hotel Derby. No dice. Nothing, nada. It didn’t move. Fuuuuuuck. I reopened the doors (with considerable trouble), fell (yes, literally fell) out, and in another five minutes, got my bags out of the lift. I assessed the situation: 1) hotel on fifth floor. 2) Me on first floor. 3) 3 very heavy bags, with valuable things in all of them, not to be left unattended. Oh.My.God! The situation with the stairs: there were about eight or so stairs, a landing, three or four more, another landing, then another eight or so stairs, and you were up one floor. Shit, shit, shit, mother-fuckety shit! I worked out my strategy, as stairs appeared to be my only choice. I would take one suitcase up to the first landing, then I would come back down, and get the second suitcase, with the duffel on top of it. My purse and coat were attached to me. After one or two floors, lots of swearing, and oh, about 10 or 15 minutes, off came the purse and coat, which I then put on top of the free suitcase. I also separated the large duffel from the top of my very-heavy-on-its-own suitcase. My new strategy: the duffel went up an entire floor, then one suitcase up a landing, after which I got the second suitcase and brought it up to the same landing, took a quick break, and then went for the gold—up the rest of the floor, after which I would go and retrieve the other suitcase. After A LOT of sweating, cursing, eyes bugging out, frustration, and feeling completely sympathetic towards myself considering the world’s cold, unfeeling, unwillingness to work with me or help me with the bags, I finally made it up to the fifth floor (cha-ching!) I rang the buzzer at the door, the owner of the hotel answered, gaped at my bags (I was only booked for one night after all), and asked “Why didn’t you use the lift?” “It wasn’t working.” Obviously, I must have had one hell of a reason to be in that state. No girl, NO girl, wants to A. carry her own bags B.walk up that many stairs C. combine A and B for the ultimate torture: D. arrive sweaty, tired, disheveled and splotchy. “You should have called, I would have gotten it for you.” It was nice to know that now, now that I’d gotten all my bags up there, all on my own. And so it was that my stuff made it to the top. I checked, only to be told that my room would not be ready until 2:00 P.M. (it currently being about 10:30 A.M. It had taken me over half an hour to carry all my bags up those stairs.) At my look of utter and total despair, he assured me that my bags could stay on the fifth floor (otherwise he could have just tossed me out the window-I was so not about to do it all over again.) After some computer checking and talking to another hotel employee, the owner took pity on me and said, (oh blessed words!) “You can have your room now.” Oh thank God, you do exist, Hail Mary, Amen! I and my luggage were brought to room 13 (good thing I am not superstitious.) I had a little trouble unlocking the door, but got some help from the “porter.” The bed: queen-sized, nice. The floor space: not. It barely held all of my bags. The bathroom and shower were both behind separate floppy-pully kinds of doors, and were itty-bitty. The “porter” left me in my honeymoon suite (right!) and closed and locked the door behind him. My number one priority: get, get naked! Yes, the first thing I did was strip down and get totally, completely naked. Number two: whiz. Number three: admire the lovely bruises from the last brotherly attack: very purple today. How did he not have ANY bruises? Number four: the view! There was a large window in the bathroom, but it was frosted, and I had no intentions of checking out the view while the view checked out the still very naked me. (Okay fine, I started to lean out, but decided against it when I realized my window faced other windows.) However, the slightly open, curtain-covered windows above my bed seemed perfect for further checking out the view. I leaned down and stuck my head out, until Wham! They apparently have very clean glass here at the Hotel Derby. I got some water and then decided to get dressed after a quick shower. After some mishaps, (was it really me who packed those bags? I certainly couldn’t find anything), I finally managed to get dressed in a full pajama outfit, flopped on the bed, and was soon fast asleep. Viva la Florence!